Floating in hell (but in a good way)

by Biscuit_Lover

Summary:

Sal Fisher had never expected to fall in love—not with anyone but his cat, or maybe that one Wendy’s cashier who gave him free fries. But then came Larry Johnson: a whirlwind of chaos, warmth, and laughter who made Sal believe that falling in love might actually be worth the risk. The only problem? Loving Larry could be the most dangerous and thrilling thing Sal’s ever done.

Chapter 1: Sketches and popsicle sticks

It was a regular day.

Well, sort of.

The clouds blocked any sun that dared peek through. The robins clawed at Sal’s brain like they had a personal vendetta, and the people were far too cheerful for 9 a.m. on a Tuesday. Too nice. Too quiet. Too eerie.

A regular day.

Well, it wasn't that bad. It was certainly better than Jersey, minus the weather. Sal had always had a tendency to dramatize things.

As he trudged down the cracked sidewalk toward the Nockfell Rec Center, walkman headphones in and head low, Sal realized three things:

One: he absolutely needed to delete "Everlong" from his playlist. That song was too overhyped and had been haunting him since seventh grade.

Two: long pants in mid-July? Terrible idea. Who let him walk out the door like that? He was practically stewing in denim.

And three: he had no idea where the hell his art class was supposed to be.

Oh, well.

Doctor Enon had insisted on it—said the course, taught by his friend Lisa, might help Sal "channel his emotional clutter into creative focus." Or something equally vague and therapist-ish. Sal didn't buy into it, but he was trying. Trying was all he had left some days.

The rec center appeared quicker than he’d hoped, reminding him just how suffocatingly small Nockfell was. Blink, and you were across town.

The building itself was... weird. Not ugly, but it gave off major 'once-was-hip' vibes. A strange fusion of sleek metal paneling and retro bricks, like someone tried to give a 1950s home a millennial facelift. A glass door with a crooked OPEN sign swung slightly in the breeze as if it forget itself what it even advertised. Sal hesitated before pulling it open.

Immediately, the scent of lavender air freshener—cheap, aggressive, almost piss -like—punched him in the face. His eyes narrowed at the fluorescent lights that buzzed like mosquitoes overhead. He stepped inside anyway.

The lobby was both over- and under-decorated. A few sad plants drooped in mismatched pots. Horrid red sofas lined the walls like some sick dentist's office. Children's crayon art was tacked up on bulletin boards beside motivational posters about growth and self-love. None of it matched. All of it was trying too hard.

The only sign of life was a tired mother wrangling two toddlers by a toy-covered kiddie table. Sal gave them a polite nod before wandering down the hallway.

At first, it smelled like disappointment and cleaning fluid. Then, gradually, the atmosphere shifted. Voices murmured. Laughter echoed faintly. Something warmer stirred in the air—like creativity lived here, even if it was buried beneath outdated tile and fluorescent lighting.

He passed a few unlabeled doors, trying to summon the courage to just ask someone where B24 was. But the silence told him no one else was around to ask.

The first door he checked—A13—led to an eerily empty room. Freezing AC, Bright lights. Silence. Nope. He shut it quickly.

Then—B17.

A child's drawing of a guitar was barely hanging on the door, held by the worst glue job he'd ever seen. Inside: pure chaos. Child-sized voices and terrible guitar playing, overlapping like a poorly tuned orchestra.

Sal sighed and opened the door.

The first thing he noticed was the man.

The kids were there, sure—five-year-olds making guitars cry for mercy—but the guy sitting among them was magnetic.

He was tall. Broad. Wavy, dark brown hair fell to his back in a way that didn’t look forced. A popsicle stick clung to his forearm like it lived there. He probably hasn't noticed it yet. His focus was intense as he tuned a small red guitar.

His nose was Roman—strong, proud—and his lips were full. He wasn’t movie-star pretty, but he was... striking. Real. Effortless. He was handsome, but not quite. He was attractive, but not by typical standards.

But Sal thought he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Sal blinked, frozen. He didn’t even notice he was staring.

“Uh... dude?” the man said, looking up with a lazy smile. His voice was deep, low, a little amused. “Unless you're five and looking to learn how to shred, I think you're in the wrong place.”

Sal blinked again. “I think I am. Or maybe you are,” he replied, wincing at his own awkwardness.

The guy laughed. It was loud and real and beautiful and it made something in Sal’s chest loosen.

“Where you headed?”

“Foundations in Art, I think.”

The man grinned wider. “Yeah, man. That’s just down the hall. B24. Left at the corner.”

“Thanks.”

What struck Sal wasn’t just the man’s laugh or his face—it was that he hadn’t reacted to the mask. Not a flinch. Not a stare. Just... acceptance. Or maybe indifference.

He walked away with a strange lightness in his step. For the first time in a while, he felt normal. He felt seen. And something in that made him feel safe, for the first time in a while.

 

Room B24 smelled like incense and paint. He knocked.

“Come in,” a warm woman's voice called.

The woman—Lisa—was not what he expected. Tall, maybe early forties, with olive-toned skin and thick, dark hair. Her smile made him feel safe. Like she already knew who he was and didn’t mind any of it.

“Foundations in Art?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sal said.

“Name, sweetheart?”

“Sal. Sal Fisher.”

She lit up. “Ah, yes. Mark told me about you. Come in, have a seat.”

The class wasn’t terrible. It was awkward, sure, and way too talky for a first meeting. But Lisa’s energy was magnetic, almost motherly, and the other students—mostly older teens and twenty-somethings—weren’t the worst.

When class ended, Sal made for the door, but Lisa stopped him.

“Sal, dear? Would you stay for a moment?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

Lisa leaned against her desk with a thoughtful smile. “How was your first class?”

“Better than I expected,” he admitted. “You’re a great teacher.”

She laughed, brushing it off. “Oh, honey. You flatter me." Lisa smiled warmly at him.

"How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

Lisa nodded slowly. Something flickered in her eyes. “Still got time to figure things out. That’s a good place to be.”

Sal gave a noncommittal shrug.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a bundle of sketch paper tied with a rubber band around a charcoal pencil. “Here. For next time. Thought you might like something a little messier than paint.”

Sal took it, surprised by the gesture.

“Thanks. Charcoal always seemed... intense.”

“You seem so, too.” Lisa said. “In a good way.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded.

“Hey, um... that guy in the music room,” he said after a beat. “The one with the hair—”

Lisa’s mouth twitched, but she kept her expression neutral. “Yes?”

“Does he work here?”

“He volunteers,” she replied. “Helps with the music programs for the little ones. They adore him.”

“Yeah, they seemed... chaotic.”

Lisa laughed softly. “They are. But he’s patient. That helps.”

Sal hesitated, but decided to speak up. "What's his name?"

Lisa smiled. He smile was oddly comforting and motherly. "Larry. His name is Larry."

Sal nodded.

There was something familiar in her voice when she spoke about him. Something deeper. But Sal didn’t catch it—not yet.

He gave a little wave. “I’ll, uh, see you next week?”

“I’ll be here.”

Sal stepped into the hallway and paused outside B17. The muffled sound of chaotic guitar still leaked through the door. Then—laughter. That same warm, unfiltered laugh from earlier.

He didn’t open the door.

He just stood there, listening.

Then he pulled out his walkman, opened his playlist, and deleted "Everlong."

He didn’t know why. It just felt like the right time.

Chapter 2: Blatant death and cigarettes

"So, how was the first class? Did you make anything of it?" Dr Enon asked, his thick mustache moving as he spoke. His voice was deep, stoic, and grounded. 

 

Sal let out a sigh. His hands down in his lap. "It was.. good. Yeah, it was good." He said, a slight shake of uncertainty in his tone.

 

"Was it?" Enon asked, taking off his glasses for a moment to rub his eyes. "You sound unsure." 

 

Sal sighed again, this time deeper. "Well, there was this guy.."

 

 

A day passed. As did two days. As did a week. And Sal found himself once again, at the rec center. But this time, he actually knew where his class was.

 

He walked a little slower now—not dragging his feet, but not exactly rushing, either. The building still smelled weird. The couches were still ugly. The fluorescent lights still too harsh. But something about it didn’t feel as alien anymore. He wouldn't call it familiar, but maybe... tolerable.

 

He turned the corner toward B24 with his sketch pad tucked tightly under his arm, eyes on the scuffed tile floor. That was probably why he didn’t see it coming.

 

Wham.

 

A shoulder hit his full-on. Something smacked the floor. Hard.

 

"Shit—" someone muttered.

 

Sal staggered a step back and looked up.

 

Larry.

 

Of course it was Larry.

 

He was juggling a guitar case slung over one shoulder and a chaotic mess of sketchbooks and papers in both arms—well, had been. Now, most of them were scattered across the floor like oversized confetti.

 

"Goddamn it," Larry mumbled, crouching down.

 

"I—uh—sorry," Sal said quickly, already kneeling to help. Larry was already down on his knees, trying to reassmble the papers. Their hands accidently brushed againt each other as they His fingers reached out to fix the mess he'd made. Larry looked up from the floor at him, his eyes having a faint sparkle to them. A sparkle of life - of love, of happiness. His honey brown eyes shimmered even under the bright fluorescent lights. Sal stared back at him, his face burning behind his mask. Thank the heavens he couldn't see that.

 

"It's fine, dude. Really." Larry smiled, a slight laugh to his voice.

 

Sal hesitated before answering, his voice small and soft. "I'm so sorry, gosh," he said, his face bright red. 

 

Larry smirked at Sal's timid reaction. Cute. "It's really fine, man. If anything, I'm sorry. I should have paid more attention to where I was walking." He said, trying to pile up the papers again. Sal looked down in an attempt to calm himself down and stop embarrassing himself in front of this poor man.

 

His fingers reached out in an attempt to help, brushing over the paper edges. Smudges of charcoal and pastel stained the white pages. Some abstract. Some faces. Some monsters, or just scribbles.

 

Some... beautiful.

 

Sal hesitated for a beat on one page. A black-and-red figure crouched on a ledge. The lines messy but intentional. Something about it felt angry. Lonely.

 

“You can look,” Larry said suddenly, looking up Sal again, raising an eyebrow with a small smile on his face. His voice softer than usual.

 

Sal blinked and glanced up at him.

 

Larry gave a little shrug. “Just sketches. Most of it’s crap anyway.”

 

"It’s not," Sal said, without thinking. “They're... intense. In a good way.”

 

Larry let out a laugh—small and surprised. “That’s what the art teacher at my high school said. Then she quit halfway through the semester. Said we were driving her crazy.”

 

Sal huffed a laugh through his nose. “I can believe that.”

 

They picked up the last few pages together in silence. Larry was warm. Big. A little chaotic. He smelled faintly of paint, sandalwood, and vanilla.

 

"Y'know, I've been hoping to bump into you sometimes soon. But not, y'know. Literally." Larry broke the silence, looking up at Sal again.

 

Sal wasnt sure how to respond. His entire face became a bright red shade, and his eyes widened a bit. "Me too." He said, his voice slightly shaking. Why was he so awkward? "Well, minus the, y'know, physical bumping part. That sucked." He said, scratching the back of his neck. 

 

Larry chuckled in response. “You headed to Lisa’s class?” he asked, carefully re-aligning the pages in his hands.

 

“Yeah. You?”

 

“Music room. Babysitting duty,” he smirked. “One of the kids hit another one in the face with a tambourine last week. Pretty sure I have PTSD.”

 

Sal smiled under his mask. “Sounds like hell.”

 

“Oh, it is. But kind of funny hell. Like a musical purgatory.” he said, lifting himself up, papers in hand. Sal did the same.

 

They stood awkwardly in the hallway for a second. Not in a bad way. Just… paused.

 

Larry rocked back on his heels. “Hey, you’re Sal, right?”, suddenly sounding smaller, in contrast to his big, tall form.

 

Sal nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“Cool. I’m Larry.”

 

“I know,” Sal said, before realizing how that sounded. “Uh—I mean, Lisa mentioned you. And I saw you last week.”

 

Larry chuckled. “Yeah, that tracks.”

 

There was a pause again. A comfortable silence that neither of them seemed in a rush to break.

 

“Well,” Larry finally said, stepping back, “have fun making tortured pastel masterpieces.”

 

“Well, its more charcoal, but you too,” Sal replied, “with the musical trauma.”

 

Larry laughed. The same deep, warm, natural laugh Sal had heard a week ago. It seemed like it was a regular thing with Larry.

 

They parted with a wave and a small, shared smile.

 

Sal’s heart thudded in a weird, echoing kind of way. Like something important had just happened, but it hadn't fully registered yet. He walked into Lisa’s class a little too warm under the collar, but in a not-entirely-bad way.

 

 

The start of class was good. Sal sketched a brown, overgrown gremlin while Lisa spoke and explained what they were going to paint today. Maybe he took inspiration from a certain someone, Maybe he didn't. A magician never reveals his secrets, anyway.

 

It was all calm and enjoyable until the talking part. Everyone were sitting in a half circle in front of Lisa's desk, listening to her instructions. A tall blonde man with tanned skin sat next to him. At first, Sal didn't mind. But then he started getting close. Too close. And then his hand brushed against Sal's thigh. "Sorry." He said, his voice scratchy and uncomfortable. Sal knew he didn't mean it. He stayed silent.

 

But then it happened again. And this time he didnt apologize. And then again. And this time, it lingered way too long and way too intimate for his liking. Sal quickly got up and walked out, muttering to Lisa that he was going to the bathroom. He wasn't. He needed a break. Water. A smoke. something. something to help him ground himself, because he was falling, and he was falling fast. He was already hyperventilating. It reminded him too much of him. 

 

He walked all the way from B24 to the lobby, passing by the horrid red sofas and taking in the striking smell of the building. It only seemed to make it worse. He searched his pockets frantically for his only anchor. And he didnr find it. Shit. He left his cigarettes in his bag. 

 

So, change of plans - he would go to the smoke spot and hope that there was someone there with some spare cigs and a moral compass. 

 

He speed walked to the garden, where there was a smoke spot in the corner of the building, overlooking the garbage cans. Magnificent. He walked over to the spot, being greeted by no other than motherfucking Larry. 

 

Larry was leaned up against the brick wall, one foot braced behind him, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He was in a faded Misfits tank top that showed off the tattoo stretching down his arm—a chaotic sketch of something skeletal and vaguely angelic. His cargo shorts looked like they’d been through hell and back, and his hair was pulled up into a messy bun that was barely holding on.

 

He looked up at the sound of footsteps. His brow lifted when he saw Sal.

 

“Hey,” he said, casually, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette.

 

Sal gave a small nod, his breath still uneven, the echo of that guy’s hand still hot on his thigh. He didn’t know why he’d come here, not really. Just that he needed out.

 

Larry squinted at him. His eyes scanned Sal's posture—tense shoulders, clenched jaw, hands twitchy at his sides. Larry’s expression softened. Without saying a word, he reached over to the wall beside him, rubbed the cigarette out against the brick, and dropped it into a nearby soda can.

 

“Didn’t know if you were cool with smoke,” he said simply, brushing ash from his fingers.

 

Sal blinked. “Oh. I am. I mean, I don’t mind. Actually… do you—do you have one to spare?”

 

Larry gave a surprised huff and patted at his pockets. “Yeah, man. For sure.” He pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels and handed it over, along with a scratched-up lighter. “They’re kind of stale. Like, existentially stale. But they work.”

 

Sal took one, his hands still a little shaky. “Thanks.” He lit it, the first drag burning a bit more than expected. He exhaled slowly, throwing his head back. “God, I needed that.”

 

Larry leaned back again, giving Sal his space, but staying close. “Rough class?”

 

Sal didn’t answer right away. “You could say that.”

 

Larry didn’t press. Just nodded, letting the silence stretch out in the comfortable way only stoners and people with heavy hearts seem to understand.

 

After a moment, Larry cracked his neck to the side. “Dude, you into Sanity’s Fall!?” he asked, his eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store.

 

Sal blinked again. That came out of nowhere. “Uh—yeah. Wait, how did you…?”

 

Larry grinned and jerked his chin toward Sal’s T-shirt. Black with the Sanity’s Fall logo half-faded across the chest. “Only real fans keep the shirts that look like they’ve been through a war.”

 

Sal glanced down and let out a quiet laugh. “This shirt has been through a war.”

 

Larry’s smile grew. “Dude, I saw them live when I was like fifteen. Mom was not happy when she found out I snuck out, but it was totally worth it. I lost a shoe in the mosh pit.”

 

“No way,” Sal said, more animated now. “Where?”

 

“Some shithole venue in the city. Place smelled like beer and death. They did ‘Blatant death’ live and I swear, my soul left my body.”

 

Sal’s eyes lit up. “That’s my favorite track.”

 

Larry gasped in mock betrayal. “Blatant death? Not Vein?”

 

“Vein is a masterpiece,” Sal admitted. “But Blatant death makes me feel like I’m floating in hell. In a good way.”

 

Larry laughed, warm and full. “Alright, fair. Respect.”

 

A breeze picked up—not much, but enough to rustle Larry’s loose tank and lift the scent of heat and dust and old cigarette smoke off the concrete.

 

Sal felt... okay. Not great. Not whole. But okay. The ache from earlier was still there, but somehow quieter now, diluted by shared music tastes and quiet understanding.

 

Larry glanced at him again. “If you ever wanna borrow my old Sanity’s Fall CD, I’ve got a bootleg live recording from that show. Audio’s trash, but the vibes are perfect.”

 

Sal glanced sideways at him, a small, grateful smile behind the mask. “I’d like that.”

 

After their giggling ceased gradually, Larry shifted slightly, letting his shoulder drop from the wall so he could get a better look at Sal. The tension hadn’t completely left him—not even close—but there was a softness now in the slope of his back, in the way his eyes weren’t darting around anymore.

 

“Hey,” Larry said after a beat, his voice lower now. “You okay?”

 

Sal didn’t answer right away, just flicked ash from the cigarette and stared at the ground like it owed him something. After a long pause, he muttered, “Been better.”

 

Larry nodded, like he understood without needing context. “Want me to shut up? I can do that. I’m great at being useless and quiet.”

 

Sal huffed out a short laugh. “No. It’s okay.”

 

Larry nudged the soda can with his foot, watching it clink lightly against the wall. “Sometimes I come out here to just... exist. Away from all the tambourines and forced small talk. You can hang here as long as you want. No pressure.”

 

Sal looked at him again, and for the first time since stepping outside, his shoulders eased. Not a lot. Just a little. Just enough to breathe.

 

Larry glanced at his hands and noticed the way Sal was gripping the cigarette too tightly. Without making a big deal of it, he reached over and gently adjusted Sal’s fingers, like someone showing a beginner how to hold a paintbrush. “You’re gonna snap it in half,” he said, tone light. “You’ve gotta treat it like it’s your friend.”

 

Sal blinked at the contact—brief, soft—but didn’t pull away. “I didn’t know it came with etiquette.”

 

“Oh yeah. There are rules. Cigarettes are dramatic little bitches. They know when you’re tense.”

 

Sal smiled behind his mask, a slow thing that warmed his voice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

They stood there again, in the quiet buzz of summer heat and cicadas. A bead of sweat slid down Sal’s neck, hidden by the collar of his T-shirt. He didn't wipe it. He didn’t want to move. Not yet.

 

Larry nudged his shoulder gently with his own. “Hey. You ever sketch out here?”

 

Sal shook his head.

 

“You should,” Larry said. “There’s this tree over there that looks like it’s seen some serious shit. Bent like an old man with secrets. Makes for good drawing practice.”

 

Sal followed his gaze to a gnarled tree near the edge of the fence. It did look like something out of a post-apocalyptic fairytale. “Might try it sometime,” he said quietly.

 

Larry hesitated for a second, then pulled something from the pocket of his shorts. A stub of charcoal, worn and smudged. He held it out.

 

“For whenever you do,” he said.

 

Sal looked at it for a moment before taking it, turning it over in his fingers like it was more valuable than it probably was.

 

“Thanks,” he said.

 

Larry shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”

 

They were quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t awkward or heavy. Just… settled. Like a low hum in the background of a moment that didn’t need fixing.

 

Eventually, Larry stretched his arms over his head and groaned dramatically. “Alright. I should probably get back before the kids start a coup. Or form a band. Which is worse, honestly.”

 

Sal didn’t say anything, but he looked at him. Long enough for Larry to notice.

 

“What?” Larry asked, cocking his head.

 

Sal flicked the end of his cigarette into the can and murmured, “Thanks. For, like… not being weird.”

 

Larry’s smile softened. “I can be weird if you want. Just say the word.”

 

Sal rolled his eyes. “You already are.”

 

“Exactly,” Larry said, turning toward the building, guitar case still resting where he left it. “You’ll get used to it.”

 

Sal lingered a moment longer, watching him walk away. The space Larry had occupied still felt warm, like it hadn’t caught up to the fact he’d left.

 

Sal wasn’t sure why, but he already knew this wouldn’t be the last time he’d end up in that corner of the rec center—between the cigarette butts and the graffiti and that crooked, dying tree.

 

Some part of him hoped it wouldn’t.

 

And for the first time in a while, that part of him didnt feel so alone.

Chapter 3: Changes

Notes:

A bit of a heavier chapter here.
The next chapter will be lighter (and will have cute Sal/Larry moments) I promise XD
I've been busting my ass for the past 4 hours on this chapter, so have fun with it :)

“Mommy?”

 

A young voice, small and sweet, echoed into sunlight.

 

Sal stood in the middle of a bright, open park. The wind was warm and gentle, rustling through the grass like a lullaby. The sky was impossibly blue. It smelled like flowers and summer.

 

He was six years old again. Shorts too big, cheeks flushed, sneakers untied. Safe. Happy.

 

“Can I go pet the doggy, Mommy? Please?”

His tiny hands tugged at the edge of her sundress.

 

Diane laughed softly—God, that laugh. He hadn’t heard it in so long that it felt like a ghost.

“Yes, honey,” she said, reaching into her bag. “Just let me grab my purse.”

 

And then—

 

The sun vanished.

 

A low, snarling growl replaced the wind.

 

Then came the teeth.

 

Pain, immediate and total, ripped through him like fire. A blur of muscle and fur knocked him off his feet. His scream tore the sky in half. The dog was on him—huge, snarling, its eyes wild and mouth red.

 

It bit down again. Flesh. Tendon. Bone.

 

He felt it all.

 

He heard her scream.

“Sal?! SAL!”

Diane’s voice was sharp, panicked.

She was running. He couldn’t see her. Just blood and teeth and pain.

And then—her scream changed.

It wasn’t calling anymore.

It was breaking.

 

Sal felt her fall beside him. Heard the sickening crack of something hitting bone.

Felt warmth leave the air.

 

Then nothing.

 

No more sunlight.

 

No more Diane.

 

Just red.

 

Sal woke up choking on his own spit. He shot upright in bed, breath catching in his throat.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered, hands flying to his face on instinct. Same old scars. Same sunken ache. He could swear he felt the dog’s teeth again, splitting him open. Or maybe he imagined it. Maybe it didn’t matter.

 

He tried to slow his breathing—and failed. Miserably.

The panic was too much. The terror, the fright, the sheer horror were overwhelming.

His palms scrubbed at his eyes, hard enough to sting. Like he could rub the memory out of his head.

 

It’s never over.

 

It’s never, ever over.

Her scream would be etched into his brain forever.

 

He shoved the blanket off and climbed out of bed. His breaths came fast, shallow.

He needed water. He needed to breathe. He needed a hug.

And he’d only manage to get two out of the three.

 

Sal was... wrecked. His thoughts tangled. His body felt far away. The nightmare had fogged up his brain, pressing down like smog, making it impossible to focus on anything but those damn teeth.

 

He brushed his teeth automatically, not checking the time. He didn’t want to look in the mirror.

He didn’t want to see his face.

He just wanted to disappear.

 

 

And then—he was outside.

 

Plaid pajama pants.

A battered, old Weezer T-shirt that looked like it had been through a war.

A $20 bill in his pocket.

Sandals over thick socks.

No real plan.

Just the need to get out.

 

The elevator ride was slow—torturously slow—and far too quiet. Claustrophobic.

When he finally made it to the ground floor and stepped out into the night, it wasn’t much better. The air was hot. Sticky. Like a second, wet skin.

 

The crickets chirped mockingly. The stars barely showed up. The moon looked too thin, too far away to care.

Sometimes Sal wished he could move to the moon and forget everyone.

 

Maybe except Larry.

He felt safe.

 

He walked the street like a ghost, the few streetlights casting long, lonely shadows.

The town was sleeping. Still. Hollow.

He passed shuttered storefronts and silent homes. One house had boards nailed across its windows. Abandoned.

Good place to explore later, he thought numbly.

 

Nockfell felt like a ghost town at night.

Dead quiet. Eerily still. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

 

He passed by the rec center, its windows dark and empty.

He didn’t stop.

Just stared for a moment.

And kept walking.

 

 

Then—surprisingly—a Blockbuster. Open.

 

The dull fluorescent lights glowed like a beacon. A flicker of color in the grayscale night.

 

Sal hesitated only briefly before going in.

 

He could really use a good movie right now.

 

The store was almost empty. The harsh overhead lights buzzed like flies, and the aisles were filled with the musty smell of plastic and nostalgia he didn't have. Rows of dusty DVD cases stood like little forgotten tombstones, and some corny pop song from five years ago played too loud over the speakers.

 

Sal wandered toward the horror section.

 

It was muscle memory, really—he always ended up here. Even if he wasn’t going to rent anything. Something about the covers made him feel at home. The monsters didn’t flinch at his face.

 

“Careful,” a mellifluous voice piped up behind him. “You’re dangerously close to the bad horror movies.”

 

Sal turned sharply, startled. A girl stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a stack of DVDs pressed to her chest. She was wearing a black baby tee that said 'Final Girls Forever', low-waisted, bedazzled jean shorts, and her boots looked like they could kick a man through a wall. Her hair was long—very long—beautifully auburn and pin-straight, falling past her waist like some kind of goth Rapunzel. Her green eyes were wide, curious, and too smart for how casually she was chewing bubble gum.

 

Sal blinked. “Uh. Sorry?”

 

She grinned and stepped closer. “I mean—unless you meant to grab Return to Slaughter High 3. Then by all means, be my guest.”

 

Sal glanced down at the DVD in his hand. Yep. That was what he was holding.

 

“…I didn’t even notice,” he muttered, putting it back on the shelf.

 

“I work here,” she said, like that explained everything. "I organize the horror shelf based on three categories: Slasher but fun, slasher but boring, and so-bad-it ’s-kinda-iconic.”

 

“Let me guess. This one’s ‘slasher but boring.’ ”

 

“Oh no,” she said, serious. “That one’s so bad it’s not even funny. It’s, like, Texas Chainsaw Massacre bad.”

 

Sal huffed a surprised laugh. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Good to know.”

 

The girl tilted her head, studying him—not in a mean way. More like she was trying to read his vibe the way she’d read the backs of movie boxes.

 

Then: “Cool shirt. I didn’t know anyone else in this town listened to Sanity’s Fall."

 

Sal stiffened slightly, then nodded. “You like them?”

 

Her eyes lit up. “Love them. ‘Vein’ got me through eighth grade. That song makes me want to punch a ghost.”

 

“…That’s the best description I’ve ever heard.” Sal smiled widely. Wow, there were more cool people here than he'd thought.

 

She beamed, a little proud. “Thanks. I’ve been workshopping it.”

 

There was a pause. Not awkward—just unexpected. Sal didn’t usually talk to people, let alone strangers who talked back.

 

She stepped closer and nudged a DVD off the shelf. “Hey, have you ever seen Pulse? It's on the newer side, but it's a really great movie. I just watched it last week."

 

Sal shook his head.

 

The cashier handed it to him. “You should. It’s all sad ghosts and existential dread. Very you.”

 

“…Very me?”

 

She shrugged. “You’ve got that whole ‘quiet guy with a tragic past’ look. No offense. It’s kinda working for you.”

 

Sal blinked again, unsure if he should laugh or leave. He just laughed.

 

She just smiled wider. “You're cool. You're new, right? I haven't seen you around before."

 

Sal nodded slowly. "I am. Just moved here last month."

 

The girl raised her eyebrows, her smile turning sweet and softer. "I'm Ashley. But my friends call me Ash." She introduced herself, offering her hand.

 

Sal hesitated, but shook Ashley's hand. "Sal." He said, His voice a bit louder. 

 

Ashley took a moment, scanning Sal's mask for a moment, not commenting. She seemed.. unfazed. "I go to Nockfell High. I'm guessing you will too?" She asked, tilting her head. 

 

Sal got a bit nervous from all the staring, but he could tell it held no malice. "I-I'm pretty sure I will. I'm starting senior year." 

 

Ash nodded, smiling even wider. "Really? Me too!" She said, her eyes lighting up.

Sal smiled again. In moments like these, he kind of wished he didn't wear the mask - so that people could see when he was actually smiling. "That's rad. I guess I'll see you around?" He asked.

 

Ash nodded eagerly. “Perfect.” She turned on her heel. “If you need help finding anything else depressing and terrifying, I’ll be up front.”

 

And just like that, she walked off, a trail of too-sweet perfume behind her as she walked away. She smelled like a Victoria's Secret store.

 

Sal stared at the DVD in his hand, still not sure what had just happened. But Ashley was really cool. And now he wanted to be her friend.

 

Sal took a small breath and exhaled a deep sigh. The low buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the distant hum of the music the speakers played made him hyper aware of everything. The way his clothes felt, the way his hair swayed with the wind of the intense fan - it was all.. overstimulating, to be honest. But he tried to ignore it. His recent conversation with Ashley made his day just a little bit better. It helped him forget. 

 

He looked up, his eyes searching for a clock on the wall. And there it was - It had an old, almost rotten black frame that contrasted against the blue walls, and it's ticking moved as tortuously as time. '11:23 PM' it read. Oh. Sal was sure it was later. How bizarre. 

 

He walked up to the register and handed Ash the movie.

 

"Pulse." She smiled at him, clearly amused and pleased with his choice. Ash tucked some hair behind her ear and scanned the product. "Good choice, newbie. That'll be 2.99." She said, a pleased smile on her face. Sal offered her the 20$ bill. She handed him the change

 

"Thanks for stopping by, Sal." She said, smiling tightly at him with a slight tilt of the head, her long, thick hair moving with it. 

"See you soon?" 

 

"Definitely," Sal responded. And although she couldn't see the smile behind his mask, she felt it. In his voice, in his words. In his body language. 

 

Sal left the store feeling.. refreshed. Refreshed from his shithead father, from his past, and from most of his worries. Most. Not all.

 

He felt free.

 

And he still did even when he entered his front door. 

Big mistake.

 

His father was on the sofa, nursing a nearly empty bottle of beer in his hands. Some shitty, low budget action movie was playing in an abnoxiously loud volume on the TV. 

His father hadn't noticed him coming in yet. Or at least he hoped he hadn't.

The apartment was heavy with heat and the sour stench of beer and old food. His father was slouched on the couch, a nearly empty bottle clutched in his hand, the glow of some garbage action flick flickering across his face. The volume was cranked to max, like he was trying to drown something out. Maybe himself.

 

Henry didn’t notice him at first.

 

Or maybe he did.

But then—his bleary eyes drifted toward the hallway. Toward Sal.

And that was it.

The bottle tipped slightly in his hand. His expression twisted. His upper lip curled like he’d just seen roadkill.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. Then louder:

“For fuck’s sake, put that goddamn thing back on.”

 

Sal froze. His hand twitched toward his face. Then stopped.

Henry leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees like he was about to deliver some sermon.

“You look like a fuckin’ accident. Jesus. I told you not to walk around like that.”

 

pause. Silence.

 

Sal’s jaw clenched. “I just got home.”

“I don’t care.” Henry snapped. “You think I wanna see that? Every time I turn my goddamn head, it’s like I’m lookin’ at a crime scene.”

 

Sal flinched like he’d been slapped. But then—he didn’t shrink back this time. Not like he usually did. Something snapped in him.

 

“You’re such a coward,” he bit out. “You can’t even look at your own son.”

 

Henry stood. The beer bottle swung slightly in his grip. “Don’t start, Sal.”

 

“No, you don’t start,” Sal growled. “All you do is sit there and drink and watch your stupid movies and pretend like it’s my fault your life sucks. You think I asked for this?”

 

“I said drop it.”

 

“You think I wanted this face?” Sal shouted. “You think I enjoy having to hide every second I’m outside so people don’t scream when they look at me?”

 

“Put the mask on, Sal. Now.”

 

“No.” His voice cracked, but it didn’t shake. "This is my fucking house, and I'm not putting the mask back on!"

 

Henry’s face darkened. His hand trembled. He pointed the neck of the bottle at him like it was a weapon. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, you ungrateful little shit. You think you’re better than me, huh? Walkin’ around all holier-than-thou, lookin’ like a fuckin’ monster and talkin’ to me like I’m dirt—”

 

“You are dirt!” Sal groaned. “You drink yourself sick every night and blame me for everything you've lost. You weren’t even there when it happened! You weren’t there when Mom—”

 

His throat tightened.

 

“You weren’t there, and I was six, and I was bleeding and screaming and you weren’t there—”

 

“Shut up!”

 

Sal didn’t. Couldn’t.

 

“You never fucking looked at me again after it happened. Not really. You just replaced me with a six-pack and pretended I didn’t exist.”

 

Henry’s hand twitched.

 

Sal stepped forward. “You wanna throw something at me again? Go ahead. Do it. I’m not scared of you anymore.”

 

“You don’t get talk to me like that in my goddamn house!” Henry bellowed.

 

Then it flew.

 

The bottle—which barely contained anything anymore—came sailing across the room.

Sal dodged it by inches.

It shattered against the wall behind him, spraying a small amount of beer and an obnoxious amount of glass everywhere.

The echo of the impact filled the apartment. And then silence.

 

Absolute silence.

 

Henry stood there, panting, like some rabid dog.

Sal didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just… stared.

 

His chest rose and fell with shallow, angry breaths. Then, without a word, he turned.

 

No slamming the door. No theatrical exit.

 

He put the mask back on, and walked out.

Chapter 4: A Cry For Help And Other Delicacies

He didn't know where he was going. He also didn't know where he would end up. But did he care?

No, not really. Not at all.

 

And that's how he found himself at the convenience store, standing in front of the register with almond milk, instant noodles, and a single sleeve of Oreos. The tired senior who sat in the register gave him the dirtiest, most judging look a person could give. But Sal could understand him.

 

"What kind of meal is that?" Asked a familiar voice behind him.

 Larry.

Of course it was Larry.

He sounded very clearly distraught, a mix between concern and disgust, His eyebrows furrowed together in faux worry.

 

Sal was.. surprised, to say the least. Why here out of all places, and why now? He looked like fucking dogshit. 

"It's not a meal. It's a cry for help." Sal answered, looking back at Larry. The taller man chuckled.

 

"Shit, man. Are you okay?" Larry asked, chuckling. His big, warm smile was on display. Fuck, he didn't expect to see him here. He was far beyond embarrassed.

Sal glanced at his sad pile of groceries, then back at Larry. “Not even remotely.”

Larry snorted. “Yeah, no kidding. That’s the most tragic grocery haul I’ve ever seen. Are you making depression soup?”

Sal shrugged. “Maybe.”

Larry stepped forward, dropping his items on the counter—three frozen pizzas, a six-pack, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and three neon-colored energy drinks that looked like they could kill a horse.

Sal stared. “That… doesn’t look much better.”

For some reason, he was sure Larry wasn't a drinker. Now he knew he was wrong. He couldn't help but think about a drunk Larry, yelling at people. Throwing things. It just hit too close to home. It sent shivers down his back.

“Excuse you,” Larry said, mock offended. “This is a feast.”

“For who? A death cult?”

“For me and some friends,” Larry said proudly, then nudged Sal’s arm with his elbow. “Actually... speaking of.”

Sal raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything tonight?” Larry asked, trying to sound casual but failing in that way people do when they’re a little too eager. “’Cause me and some friends are hanging out. Just chillin’. Movies, weed, beer. Pizza overdose. You should totally come.”

 

Sal blinked. “I—uh.”

“They’re cool,” Larry said a little too quickly, holding his hands up. “You’re cool. I’m cool. You’ll fit right in.”

He said it all in one breath—too fast to be truly casual. Like he was trying not to make it sound like a big deal, even though it kind of was. Like maybe this was his last shot at getting Sal to say yes.

Sal hesitated, the words getting jammed somewhere in his throat. His heart did this annoying flip thing—he wasn’t used to being invited to stuff like this. It made him feel warm and itchy at the same time. 

But still. His chest was tight. He felt gross. The mention of beer almost made him shudder. He was tired and anxious and didn’t trust himself not to freak out over a Dorito crumb tonight.

 

“No,” Sal blurted out, much too quickly. Impulsively. Shit. "I-I mean.. I think I’m just gonna… stay in. If that’s okay.”

Larry nodded like he expected that answer. But his smile didn’t dim, even at Sal's initial response. 

“No worries, man.” He moved up to pay as Sal stepped aside. The cashier scanned his questionable purchase, visibly judging him even harder than he had Sal.

 

After paying, Larry stuffed the receipt into his back pocket, then paused. “Hey—wait.”

 

He pulled it back out, clicked the pen he’d borrowed from the counter, and scribbled something on the back.

“Just in case you change your mind.” He handed it to Sal.

 

Sal turned it over. It was an address, Scrawled in messy, sharp handwriting that was somehow exactly what he expected. 

 

"875 Rosemont blvd, come hungry!" 

Larry also chose to add a small, sloppy drawing of a cat with angel wings. Cute.

 

“You can show up whenever. No pressure. Bring your sad soup if you want.”

 

Sal smiled a little behind his mask. Well, that was adorable. “Thanks.”

 

“Anytime,” Larry said, tossing him a casual salute with two fingers as he backed toward the door. “Later, man.”

 

“Later.”

 

Sal watched him leave, the bells above the door jingling after him.

 

Then he looked down at the receipt again.

 

He wasn’t going.

 

..But maybe he’d keep it.

 

Just in case.

 

 

The walk back home was filled with doubt. Contemplating whether or not he should go, and completely embarrass himself in front of Larry and his friends, or just stay at home like he has been doing every night the past month they've been living here.

And after all that, did he come to a decision?

 Absolutely not.

 

When Sal finally made it home, the apartment was silent. No beer bottles clinking, no TV blaring some shitty movie at full volume. Just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside. His father wasn’t there. Maybe he was passed out in some bar again, or fucking some hooker, or just passed out in his bedroom—Sal didn’t care enough to check. He went straight to his room, kicked off his shoes, and dropped onto the bed. The crumpled receipt burned in his hand like it had weight. He unfolded it slowly, eyes scanning the neat, slanted handwriting. 875 Rosemont blvd. He stared at it for a long time, as if it might give him the answer he was too afraid to say out loud.

It didn't, but it was definitely worth a try.

 

After about half an hour of staring at the ceiling and contemplating all of the bad outcomes that could happen as a result of going there, Sal came to a conclusion - 

For once, he'd do something terrifying. He'd go to that house. He'd try to have fun.

God help him.

 

 

Sal spent about 15 minutes rummaging through his closet. Wow, he really did have nothing to wear. 

But he managed to put an outfit together. A cute one. Actually, A really cute one. He wanted to make a good impression.

He put together some baggy, low-waisted jeans and a black Bauhaus T Shirt. It took him long enough.

For the first time in a while, he decided to look in the mirror. He definitely wasn't thrilled about doing it, but he wanted to look good. He needed to look good. And if not good, than at least presentable, And not like a homeless man for a change.

 

His roots were showing. Bad. Dirty blonde clashed with the muted blue shade of the rest of his head. He didn't like that. He needed a touch up. he had no choice but to leave it like that for now. His shaggy mullet was wild, hair sticking out everywhere. And it was the kind of mess that only a real hairdresser could fix, Not an adolescent boy who could barely dye his hair properly.

His masked face looked back at him through the mirror. If he wasn't used to seeing that mask by now,  it would totally give him the creeps. But he just.. stared. Unfazed. Yes, the mask was bizarre, to say the least. But it was familiar. And safe. 

 

It hid the mangled face that sat beneath it, and to be frank, he preferred the mask over it.

 

He just hoped it wouldn't creep out Larry's friends as much as it did him.

 

He quickly put on his converse and checked the time on his bedside alarm. 01:12. It was late. Very late. But Larry said he could show up whenever, right? So it was fine. It was okay.

 

About 5 minutes later, he was out of the house and on the street. The hot july air hit him like a train, making him start to sweat almost immediately. He clutched the reciept in his hand, careful not to drop it. He knew that Rosemont blvd was close to the rec center, so he went in its direction, and after about 10 minutes, he got there. He double-checked the address on the receipt,

Yep. This was it. 

 

After a few minutes of giving himself a mental pep talk, he walked in front of the door. he heard laughter almost right away. He could instantly tell which one was Larry - deep, warm, and unrestrained. He heard five other voices - one of which was a woman's voice, which was vaguely familiar. he couldn't pinpoint where or when exactly he had heard it. The other four voices he had never heard. 

There was loud music - rock music, played from what Sal could rightfully assume was a speaker. The people inside sounded happy. Joyful.

With a surge of bravery, Sal knocked on the door. He didn't expect anyone to hear him, and he was already seriously thinking about chickening out and coming home.

 

But then the door opened.

 

He was greeted by what looked like a very high, very shirtless Larry. Now, that was a sight he was not ready to see. 

 

His hair was tousled and messy, flowing down his back. His face was flushed, eyes a light red. His lips were wet, presumably from all the alcohol and adrenaline running through his system. There was hair staddictives forehead with sweat. And somehow, despite Sal's extreme repulsion from this type of stuff, he found himself.. not disgusted. He liked what he saw. 

 

He liked it a lot. It made him look wild. Even more alive than usual. He looked feral.

 

But that was not all. The cherry on top of the cake was his body. His beautifully, perfectly sculpted body.

He looked like he'd been carved out of light and smoke and terrible decisions. It was unfair, honestly.

Larry was muscular, but not too muscular. It was beautiful, but not over the top. He was perfectly fit. He was the perfect mix between fit and skinny.

 

And Sal ate that shit up.

 

"Hey, you made it!” Larry’s voice cut through the haze, snapping Sal out of his trance. Maybe he hadn’t noticed Sal staring. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

 

“You said to show up whenever,” Sal shrugged, casual but a little off-balance. He hoped Larry could hear the smile in his voice—that he didn’t look like a total asshole just standing there on the porch like a lost child.

 

Larry grinned, leaning his weight against the doorframe. “Hell yeah, I did. I was starting to think you were too cool for us.”

 

Sal huffed a laugh, trying to stop himself from checking out Larry again like a total pervert. “Nah. Just took a while to convince myself I’m not completely feral.”

 

Larry stepped aside and waved him in. “Dude, please. You’re probably the most normal one here tonight.”

 

Sal highly doubted that, but he appreciated the gesture.

 

The moment he stepped inside, the air hit him—a mix of weed, body spray, and oven pizza. Loud guitars thrummed in the background, something distinctly grungy and low-budget but kind of perfect for the vibe. The living room was a mess of mismatched furniture, throw pillows, open soda cans, and tangled extension cords. And people—maybe five or six, just like he’d heard.

 

There was a guy—about Sal’s age—carefully rolling a blunt on the coffee table like it was some kind of science experiment. His bright orange curls were neatly trimmed, and he wore a green flannel rolled up at the sleeves, khakis that looked one sneeze away from falling off, and big round glasses that gave him the vibe of someone who corrected teachers for fun.

 

Next to him, lounging with a soda can tucked lazily between his fingers, was a tall guy with smooth, deep brown skin and short, neat dreads. He looked calm, like nothing could possibly rattle him, and the small smile on his lips said he was used to being the sanest person in the room.

 

Sal didn’t need to be told they were together. The way their shared energy radiated out was enough.

 

Larry waved a hand toward them as Sal stepped further in. “That’s Todd and Neil.”

 

Todd glanced up from his blunt and grinned. “Hey, man. You’re Sal, right? Larry’s talked about you.” His voice was warm, curious—not nosy, just open.

 

Sal nodded, his breath catching in his throat. Larry talked about him? “Yeah. That’s me.”

 

“Nice mask,” Neil added with a soft, sincere tone that didn’t feel mocking. “I like the style.”

 

Sal blinked. Normally, he'd correct him and tell him it's a prostethic. But it didn’t feel necessary, and he was scared shitless to ruin the vibe. “Uh. Thanks.”

 

“And I like your T-shirt,” Todd added, pointing with the tip of the rolling paper. “Bauhaus is underrated.”

 

Okay. That wasn’t so bad.

 

On the opposite side of the room, curled up on an old couch that had definitely seen better days, were two more people. One of them was a girl with short, steel-gray hair and thick black eyeliner that gave her the air of a goth princess. She wore a black, cropped, lacy tank and boots that looked like they could crush a man’s soul—but when she caught Sal’s eye, she smiled like they were already friends.

Next to her sat a chubby guy with bright green hair and a truly unfortunate pineapple-patterned button-up shirt. His legs were kicked up on the coffee table, and he looked completely at ease, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Maple and Chug,” Larry introduced, tossing an arm lazily in their direction. “They’re disgusting and very in love.”

Chug grinned, not the least bit offended. “You’re just jealous,” he said, popping a gummy bear into his mouth.

 

Maple smiled at Sal. “Nice to finally meet the mystery boy Larry’s been talking about.”

 

Sal arched a brow and shot a glance at Larry, who shrugged with a sheepish grin.

 

“What can I say? You made an impression.”

 

Sal felt his face warm, but he didn’t let it show. Not completely. Instead, he gave a small nod to the room. “Nice to meet you guys.”

 

As he scanned the room again, his eyes caught on a girl sitting cross-legged on a beat-up beanbag chair, half-sunken into the corner between the couch and the speaker still thudding out gritty guitars. She had a bowl of chips in her lap and a half-empty soda can beside her. Her oversized hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, revealing a constellation of glittery stickers on the strap of her tank top.

She wasn’t saying anything, just observing. A small, amused smile tugged at her lips like she was in on some secret nobody else knew.

 

“Oh! Ash,” Larry said suddenly, gesturing toward her. “This is Sal, the guy I was telling you about.”

 

Ashley looked up mid-chew—and froze.

 

Sal did, too.

 

For a split second, neither of them spoke.

 

Then:

 

“No way,” Ashley said around a mouthful of chips. She swallowed quickly. “Newbie?”

 

Sal blinked. “Blockbuster girl?”

 

Ashley grinned, pointing at him with a greasy chip. “I knew I recognized the voice. I was like, there’s no way two people in Nockfell sound like that.”

 

Sal chuckled under his breath, a little stunned but not at all upset. “Yeah, well. Guess it’s a small cursed town after all.”

 

“Damn right,” she said, scooting over to make space beside her on the beanbag. “Get over here. You’re sitting next to me.”

 

Sal glanced at Larry, whose brows lifted in surprise.

 

“Well, shit,” Larry muttered. He wasn’t really mad. More amused. “This is my guest, Ash.”

 

“You’ll live,” Ashley shot back, patting the open spot beside her. “Come on, Sal. I’ve got chips, and I promise not to psychoanalyze you unless you ask nicely.”

 

That made him laugh.

 

The next hour consisted of Sal and Ashley passing each other movie recommendations and geeking out over shitty, black-and-white horror films—everything from Carnival of Souls to The Killer Shrews. Ashley was animated, gesturing with greasy fingers, and Sal found himself talking more than usual, even cracking a few dry jokes that made her snort-laugh. Every time Larry looked over, he saw the two of them leaning in, giggling about some obscure film from the ‘60s, and he shot Ashley a few exaggerated death stares from across the room.

Meanwhile, Todd was rolling yet another blunt with the concentration of a surgeon, Neil resting easily beside him, occasionally adding a calm comment or a chuckle at one of Todd’s nerdy factoids about THC levels. Maple and Chug were curled together on the couch like a tangle of limbs, watching the group with lazy amusement, occasionally chiming in with weird snack combinations or out-of-pocket one-liners that kept the mood loose.

 

Finally, Larry couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted Sal next to him. And fast. He stood up and clapped his hands. “Alright, enough flirting over Nosferatu, I’m calling a weed circle.”

 

Ashley stuck her tongue out. “You’re just mad we’re bonding.”

 

“I am mad,” Larry said, sticking his tongue out back to Ash. “And very stoned. And I want my circle.”

 

He flopped dramatically onto the rug, patting the space next to him. “Sal. You’re in. Right here. Circle rules.”

 

Sal blinked, caught mid-sip of a warm soda Ashley had handed him earlier. “Uh…”

 

Ashley elbowed him gently. She wasn’t sure before, but now she knew she definitely wanted Sal and Larry together. “You’re legally obligated to join. It’s like, super, super important tradition.”

 

Sal rolled his eyes behind the mask, but his lips twitched into something close to a smile. He got up, brushing chip crumbs off his shirt, and awkwardly shuffled over to the spot next to Larry. Their knees barely touched, but the contact buzzed like static.

 

“Atta boy,” Larry said, already passing him a blunt. “Don’t worry. We’re chill. We don’t bite.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Maple said sweetly from across the circle.

 

Sal accepted the blunt with slightly unsure fingers, holding it like it might explode. “Good to know.”

 

And just like that, the circle closed in. And the first hit Sal took was a head start for one hell of a night.

Thanks to Todd’s strangely refined talent for rolling blunts with scientific precision, they had more joints than any normal group of teens could reasonably need. The circle had dissolved an hour ago, but the weed kept going. One got passed around like a sleepy game of hot potato while the rest of the room slowly melted into chaos.

 

Everyone was thoroughly, irreversibly fried.

 

Larry had migrated behind Sal at some point, knees bracketing either side of him on the rug. His hands were clumsy in Sal’s blue hair, trying—and failing—to braid his mullet into something that resembled one long braid. He kept mumbling complaints under his breath, clearly baffled by the uneven layers.

“This piece keeps slipping, man,” Larry muttered, tugging too softly to hurt but just enough for Sal to feel the warmth of his fingertips. “Why do you have so many lengths? It’s like… a shaggy puzzle.”

 

Sal exhaled a quiet laugh, cheeks pink beneath the mask. “It’s not exactly a salon cut.”

 

“I could fix it,” Larry offered, a little too confidently.

 

“You absolutely could not,” Sal said, leaning forward slightly, just enough to dodge Larry’s next clumsy sectioning.

 

Behind him, Larry pouted. “Let me dream.”

 

Sal shook his head, but didn’t move away. Not really.

 

Across from them, Maple was curled on a beanbag chair, legs tucked underneath her like a sleepy cat. She and Sal had fallen into conversation at some point—about music, mostly. Turns out, she had a thing for old industrial bands and obscure horror comics, and the more they talked, the more Sal realized she was actually... kind of awesome.

Nearby, Todd and Neil had fully checked out of the conversation. They were tangled together on a loveseat, whispering and occasionally kissing, completely unbothered by the rest of the world. Ashley, meanwhile, had passed out flat on her back on the rug beside Larry, a chip bag resting on her chest like a weighted blanket. She was snoring softly, glitter stickers still clinging to her cheek.

Chug had disappeared into the kitchen about fifteen minutes ago and was heard rummaging through drawers and cabinets with the intensity of someone assembling a Michelin-star meal out of Pop-Tarts and microwave cheese fries.

Larry, still half-focused on Sal’s hair, gave up the braid entirely and instead just let his fingers rest near the nape of Sal’s neck, warm and clumsy. He traced soft circles, causing shivers down Sal’s spine. Not from discomfort, but from excitement. The gesture felt weirdly... intimate.

 

Sal tried not to think about it too hard.

 

He should’ve pulled away—maybe. But it didn’t feel threatening. It didn’t even feel particularly weird. It just felt… nice. Comfortable in a way that was both foreign and addicting.

“Y’know,” Larry murmured, voice lower now, softer, “you’re, like… a lot cooler than you let on.”

 

Sal scoffed lightly. “Thanks. I work hard to seem like a little freak.”

 

Larry chuckled, and his thumb absentmindedly brushed a bit of hair from Sal’s collar. “It’s working. You’re totally freaky. But, like, in a charming way.”

 

Sal didn’t answer right away. His stomach twisted—warm and knotted. He couldn’t decide if it was the weed or the attention or the closeness.

 

Maybe all three.

 

“…You’re not too bad yourself,” he muttered eventually, eyes fixed on the floor, like he hadn’t just said the most terrifying words of his week.

 

Larry froze for a beat.

Then leaned forward, voice right near his ear. Sal nearly choked. “Aww. You like me.”

 

“Shut up,” Sal said, too quickly, too defensively.

 

Larry snorted, pulling back with a smug grin. “It’s okay. I like you too.”

 

Sal didn’t reply. He just pulled a pillow into his lap and hugged it with both arms, like maybe it would soak up the sudden heat in his chest.

Larry didn’t push it. He just sat there behind him, humming along to the music playing in the background—some hazy alt-rock track—and went back to playing with Sal’s hair, more gently this time.

 

It was… quiet. But not the bad kind. Not lonely.

 

It just surprised Sal, because initially, he wasn't sure what to expect. But it certainly wasn't this. He felt safe. At peace. And he already wanted to hang out with them again. And with Ash. And Larry.

Notes:

Promised and delivered (:
Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Chapter 5: Memories And Dreams

Notes:

Disclaimer: This chapter contains mentions of sexual abuse !

Ash’s sofa was surprisingly comfortable to sleep on.

 

Sal woke up slowly, like his brain had to boot up in stages. First came the awareness of the faint morning light, filtering in through the crooked blinds. Then the smell—sweet, toasty, and vaguely burnt. French toast? Or maybe Pop-Tarts. Definitely something sugary.

And then he realized he wasn’t alone.

Larry was draped behind him like a forgotten jacket—warm, heavy, and unexpectedly comforting. One of his legs had tangled loosely with Sal’s, and his arm hung along the top of the couch, fingers curled just inches from Sal’s shoulder. Their bodies didn’t quite touch, but the space between them felt charged—like the kind of closeness that wasn’t entirely accidental.

 

Sal stared up at the ceiling, unmoving.

 

The house was quiet, except for the gentle hum of something—someone—in the kitchen. A soft, off-key melody floated from the next room, paired with the clink of silverware and the hiss of a frying pan. Sal blinked a few times, trying to ground himself in the moment.

Ashley—of course.

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the hallway. He wasn’t sure if she knew he was awake yet, or if she was just doing her thing—humming some old bubblegum pop song while burning breakfast and pretending like she didn’t just host a stoned sleepover for half of Nockfell’s weirdest teens.

He glanced down at the blanket someone had draped over him during the night. It smelled vaguely like weed and citrus body spray.

 

Then Larry stirred.

 

Sal froze. Not because he was afraid—well, okay, maybe a little—but because the shift brought them even closer. Larry’s forehead briefly brushed the top of his shoulder before he muttered something under his breath and rolled onto his back, one arm flopping dramatically over his face.

 

“…Mmph. Bright.”

 

Sal didn’t say anything. He just stared at the ceiling and tried very hard not to feel anything.

But his heart was pounding.

God help him.

 

Larry groaned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist like a sleepy toddler. “Why does morning exist,” he mumbled into his elbow.

 

Sal huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop it. That seemed to catch Larry’s attention.

 

Larry peeked at him from under his arm, blinking slowly. His voice was hoarse. “You're awake?”

 

Sal nodded. “Unfortunately.”

 

Larry squinted at the sunlight bleeding through the blinds like it had personally offended him. “Dude. My brain feels like a half-baked brownie,” he said, rubbing his eyes again.

 

Sal didn’t respond right away. He was too focused on how Larry’s voice sounded in the morning—low and a little scratchy, like it hadn’t figured out how to be awake yet. It was… stupidly nice. Annoyingly nice.

 

Larry let out a long sigh and finally sat up, his hair a wild curtain over one eye. “Ash always makes breakfast after a group sleepover,” he said, stretching his arms above his head. It made his muscles flex just enough to remind Sal that he was still shirtless. Behind him. Touching him. Oh god, they were touching.

 

Sal looked away immediately, attempting to ground himself. “Right. I can smell it.”

 

“Yeah,” Larry chuckled, standing with a yawn. “It’s probably like, ten percent food and ninety percent ashtray Pop-Tarts.”

 

He reached down, offering Sal a hand.

 

Sal hesitated, then took it. Larry’s fingers were warm—rough in some places, callused from guitar strings, maybe paintbrush handles. He pulled Sal up with a small grunt and didn’t let go right away. Just squeezed his hand once, casually, before letting it drop.

Sal’s face was hot. He prayed the mask covered it enough so that Larry couldn't see it.

 

A second later, Ashley’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “I hope you two are decent, because I am not in the mood to walk in on a teenage orgy before noon!”

 

Larry snorted. “We’re so decent it hurts,” he said, weirdly confident in his words despite the fact that he was the least decent guy in the room.

 

“Speak for yourself,” Sal muttered, making Larry chuckle.

 

Larry gave him a grin. A mischievous one. He knew damn well what he was doing.

 

They shuffled toward the kitchen, Larry in front, Sal trailing behind like a Victorian ghost in band merch. When they stepped into the tiny kitchen, Ashley was standing at the stove, hair tied up in a messy bun and glitter still stuck to one cheek. She was flipping something vaguely pancake-shaped in a pan that had clearly seen better days.

 

“Morning, my favorite weirdos,” she chirped. “There’s coffee. It’s bad. Drink at your own risk.”

 

Larry beelined for the mug sitting on the counter, already stained with something suspiciously beige. “You’re an angel, Ash.”

 

“I know,” she said with a cocky smirk.

 

Sal took a seat at the table, fiddling with the fraying edge of the sleeve of his shirt.

 

Ashley glanced over her shoulder, then set a paper plate in front of him with two floppy pancakes and a dramatic flourish. “Voilà. Breakfast. They’re not poisoned. Probably.”

 

Sal gave her a tiny, grateful nod. “Thanks.”

 

Larry plopped down next to him, already pouring what looked like half a pound of maple syrup onto his plate.

 

Ashley leaned against the counter, sipping her own mug of sludge. “So. You guys sleep okay?”

 

Sal didn’t answer. Larry gave her a look. “You know I passed out cold.”

 

“Yeah, I heard your weird little weed snores.” She smirked, then looked at Sal. “You, though. You good?”

 

He paused. Then nodded again, slower this time. “Surprisingly, yeah.”

 

Ashley smiled softly, not pushing. Just letting it be.

They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that only came after a night too full to process yet. Sal picked at his pancakes, which were a little mushy in the middle but not half bad. Larry, on the other hand, inhaled his plate like a starved man, licking syrup from his fingers with zero shame.

 

Eventually, Larry let out a satisfied groan and pushed back his chair. “I’m gonna wash the sin off my face. Be right back.”

 

He shuffled down the hall, barefoot, mumbling something about needing to floss his soul. The bathroom door creaked shut a moment later.

The second he was gone, Ashley set down her mug and turned to Sal like a cat who’d just heard a mouse blink from across the room.

 

“So…” she said, hopping up to sit on the counter with a little bounce. “You two looked very cozy this morning.”

 

Sal nearly choked on a piece of pancake.

 

Ashley grinned. “Not judging. Just saying. I’ve had less intimate sleepovers with people I was dating.”

 

Sal swallowed, face heating instantly under the mask. “We weren’t—it wasn’t like that.”

 

“I know.” Her tone was casual, understanding. “You’re not exactly the ‘jump into someone’s bed after a hangout’ type.”

 

Sal glanced down at his plate, staying silent and pushing a piece of pancake around with his fork.

 

“Hey, you two aren’t… well… y’know, right?” he asked, looking up at her from his plate.

 

Ash raised an eyebrow, looking at him like he’d just revealed the existence of aliens. “Aren’t what?”

 

“Y’know. Like… a thing.” He repeated, hoping she would get it.

 

Ash silenced for a moment, before realizing what he was asking and huffed out a choked laugh. “God, Sal, no!” she chuckled.

 

“He’s gay, Sal.”

 

“Oh,” Sal said, nodding slowly. “He is?”

 

“Sal, he’s gayer than Boy George and Freddie Mercury together. He’s the gayest man I have ever met.”

 

Sal blinked. “…Right.”

 

Ashley kept rambling on. “And we’ve known each other since I was like, 9. Gross. Even if he was straight, absolutely fucking not. He disgusts me.”

 

“…I didn’t know that,” Sal said.

 

“Well, now you know.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind me assuming you are too. Like, in the community, Y’know?”

 

Sal nodded.

 

“Well, back to what I was saying—” Ashley added, softer now. “You seemed... calm. Like you weren’t freaking out.”

 

“I was,” Sal said bluntly. “Internally.”

 

Ashley snorted. “That’s fair.”

 

There was a pause. The sounds of Larry humming something from the bathroom floated faintly down the hall.

 

Ashley nudged the conversation again, gentler this time. “Do you like him?”

 

Sal hesitated. Then: “I don’t know.”

 

Ashley tilted her head, leaning closer. “Wanna know a secret?”

 

He glanced at her. She was smiling, but not teasing anymore. “I think he likes you,” she whispered.

 

Sal’s breath caught, just a little.

 

“He talks about you,” she added. “Not in a creepy way. Just... you come up. a lot.”

 

Sal didn’t know what to say to that. His fingers curled tighter around the fork.

 

Ashley hopped off the counter, padding over to refill her mug. “No pressure. Really. But if you do like him? Just… don’t wait too long to show it. He’s a lot of things, but patient isn’t one of them.”

 

Sal nodded slowly, unsure of what to do with the sudden weight in his head.

 

From down the hall, they heard the faucet shut off and the bathroom door creak open again.

 

Ashley smirked mischievously. “Showtime.”

 

Slowly, a very sluggish, but slightly cleaner Larry arrived from the bathroom. His hair was still a mess, and he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, but it was evident that he was trying. That was very cute.

 

“Shit, I’m fucking wiped.”

 

Larry said, stretching his arms. He dramatically plopped himself onto the seat next to Sal, grabbing a piece of pancake off his plate. “So,”

 

Larry asked, completely oblivious to the conversation they had just had. “Who are we gossiping about? Is it me?” he asked, playfully wiggling his eyebrows.

 

“Chug,” Ash said quickly, lying through her teeth as she shot Sal a look of mischief. He was in. He was so in.

 

The walk home was quieter than Sal expected.

 

Not awkward quiet. Just… the kind of quiet that settles in after a night too full of noise and laughter and secondhand smoke. The sun was already climbing over the rooftops, casting long, soft shadows on the cracked sidewalks. Nockfell didn’t feel as heavy in the daylight. It felt smaller. Sleepier.

Larry walked beside him, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants. At some point, he’d thrown on the same pair of baggy jeans from the night before and borrowed a pair of mismatched socks from Ashley, that somehow fit like they were made for him, which was honestly worse.

They didn’t talk much. Just the occasional comment—Larry grumbling about the sun like it was a personal enemy, or asking if Sal wanted to get something to drink on the way. But Sal was too busy trying not to think about how warm Larry had been that morning, or the way his hand had felt when he pulled him up from the couch.

 

Sal kind of liked the silence. It didn’t press down on him. It didn’t demand anything.

 

About halfway to Sal’s place, Larry nudged him lightly with an elbow. “So… you crashing next time, too?”

 

Sal blinked. “Next time?”

 

“Yeah. Movie night. Or whatever. Ash always ropes us into something eventually.” He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. “You’re kinda part of the group now, y’know.”

 

Sal didn’t know what to say to that. Part of the group. Just like that. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but the idea made something warm and unsteady bloom behind his ribs.

 

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “If I’m invited.”

 

Larry looked at him, mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. “You’re invited, dude.”

 

They walked the rest of the way in that same easy silence. And when they reached Sal’s apartment building, Larry didn’t rush off. He lingered at the edge of the sidewalk, rocking on his heels.

 

“Well.” He scratched the back of his neck. “This was fun. For a Tuesday.”

 

Sal nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

 

Larry grinned. “You're a great fit, dude. They loved you. I could tell.”

 

Larry didn't see it, but behind his mask, Sal was flaming red. “They did?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sal didn’t respond. He just gave Larry a slow nod in a pathetic attempt to respond.

 

After a few seconds of silence, Larry cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go. Need to go home. My mom is probably already waiting for me with a flip-flop in her hands.” He said in that deep, sunny voice of his, and started walking backward down the street, still smiling. “Call me when you wanna hang out or whatever,” he called over his shoulder.

 

Sal hesitated. “I don’t have your number.”

 

Larry stopped. Blinked. Then smacked his forehead with exaggerated flair.

 

“Right. Duh.” He jogged back a few steps, dug a pen out of his jeans pocket, and grabbed Sal’s hand like it wasn’t even a question. With quick, messy handwriting, he scrawled a number across Sal’s palm, along with a smiley face.

 

“There.” He capped the pen with his teeth and winked. “Old school,” Larry said, flashing Sal his shit-eating grin.

 

“And by the way, chances are my mom will pick up instead of me, so just ask if Larry’s there. I probably will be.”

 

Sal nodded. “Cool.”

 

Sal stared at the ink smudging into the creases of his hand. He chuckled.

 

“Catch you later, Sal.”

 

And just like that, Larry turned and strolled off down the street, as if he hadn’t just casually made Sal’s entire week.

Once Larry was gone, Sal stared up at the same building he had practically fled last night. He did not want to go back.

 

But what choice did he really have?

 

He took a deep breath, shoved his hands in his pockets, and trudged up the steps. The apartment door creaked as he opened it.

The smell hit first.

Not smoke. Not beer. Just… pancakes. Sweet, buttery, warm. Almost welcoming. The kind of smell that tried to rewrite history.

 

Sal blinked.

 

Henry was at the stove, humming some old rock song under his breath, flipping a pancake with way more enthusiasm than necessary.

 

“Oh, hey, buddy!” he said brightly, as if Sal had just come back from a sleepover when he was ten, not stormed out of the house less than twelve hours ago. “I’m making pancakes. Want some?”

 

Sal stared at him. He hadn’t even changed clothes—still in that stretched-out T-shirt and the same sweatpants from yesterday. But now he was all smiles, cheerful, like nothing had happened.

 

Sal shook his head. “No, Dad. Thanks.”

 

Henry nodded like that was fine. Normal. “So, uh… where were you?”

 

“With some friends.”

 

“Friends.” Henry’s face lit up. “Wow! I didn’t know you already made friends! That’s amazing, bud!”

 

Silence.

 

Sal didn’t sit. Didn’t take off his shoes. Just stood there, still holding onto the weight of last night. His fingers twitched at his sides.

 

Henry finally looked up from the pan. “What’s wrong?”

 

Sal’s voice was flat. “Don’t you remember anything from last night?”

 

There was a beat of stillness. The kind that stretches too long.

 

Then Henry gave a tight, awkward laugh, like maybe Sal was joking. “What do you mean?”

 

Sal just stared at him. Long enough for the smile on Henry’s face to waver.

 

“I—” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I had a few drinks. Got a little out of hand. But I’m fine now, yeah? It was just a rough night. No big deal.”

 

Sal turned and walked toward his room.

 

Behind him, Henry stepped out from the kitchen, still holding the spatula. “Sal—wait. I’m sorry.”

 

Sal didn’t stop walking.

---

FOUR YEARS AGO - NEW JERESY

 

The kitchen smelled like bacon and coffee.

 

Sal sat at the table, smaller than he is now, but with the same stiff posture. The same hollow look in his eyes. His hands were folded neatly in his lap. Silent.

 

Henry was at the stove, just like now, flipping bacon like it was any other morning. He wasn’t looking at Sal.

 

“I was thinking we could go to the lake today, huh?” he said. His voice was light. A little too light. “You love the lake.” The faux sweetness in his voice made Sal’s stomach turn.

 

The sizzle of the bacon popped loudly. Sal flinched.

 

Behind him, footsteps padded into the kitchen.

 

Rick.

 

His voice was smooth, casual. He put his hands on Sal’s shoulders, ‘massaging’ him. Sal shivered. “Yeah, Sal. That sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

 

Then he moved a hand to his back. Too low. Too long. Sal’s shoulders locked up.

 

“What do you say I come too, Henry? I’m free today.”

 

Henry didn’t turn around. “That’s a great idea, Rick. I think we’ll take you up on that.”

 

Sal stared down at the table. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

---

PRESENT

 

The door shut with a soft click behind him.

 

Sal sat on the edge of his bed, shoes still on, mask still present on his face like a tattoo. The apartment was quiet again, save for the faint sound of a spatula scraping the pan.

 

He stared at his hand.

 

The number Larry had written was already starting to blur, smudging in the creases of his palm.

 

It looked like it might disappear soon.

 

Sal didn’t want it to.

 

He clenched his hand into a fist, then pulled his desk drawer open and dug around until he found a pen. Slowly, carefully, he copied the number down on a piece of scrap paper and folded it in half.

 

Then he sat back, letting himself breathe for the first time since walking in the door.

 

There was still the smell of pancakes in the air.

 

But now it made his stomach turn.

Chapter 6: For The First Time

Notes:

Thank you guys so much for the support! It honestly keeps me going. I can't wait to give you guys more chapters! I'm currently working on chapter 8, so if I keep going at this rate, expect daily updates (no promises tho)
Enjoy reading!

Sal was going to explode.

 

The scrap of paper with Larry's number that Sal held in his hand had gone soft at the corners from how many times he’d unfolded and refolded it. His thumb kept tracing over the numbers, the ink slightly faded now. He stared at it like it might give him answers. Or permission. Or courage.

 

It didn’t.

 

Still, he dialed.

 

The line clicked after two rings.

 

“Johnson residence!”

 

Sal blinked. The voice was female. Bright. Familiar in a way that made his spine straighten.

 

“Uh… hi,” he said, unsure. “Is Larry there?”

 

There was a pause. Then a warm laugh. “You must be Sal.”

 

His stomach dropped. “How did you—”

 

“I’m Lisa. I teach your class, remember?” She sounded like she was smiling. “And you’ve come up in conversation once or twice.”

 

Sal was dumbfounded. He stood stiffly by his bed, heart hammering. Lisa was Larry's mom? Since when? And why did he not pick up on that?

 

“I’ll grab him. Hold on, sweetheart.”

 

Sweetheart.

 

He pressed the phone tightly to his ear.

 

He heard her call out in the background, “Lar-Bear! Your boyfriend's on the line!"

 

Sal almost dropped the receiver.

 

Somewhere on the other end, muffled protests: “He’s not—Mom! Jesus! Why are you—"

 

There was a thud, some shuffling, and then—

 

“Hey.” Larry’s voice came through, smooth and easy. “What’s up, Sal? I thought you’d never call.”

 

Sal swallowed. “Figured it was about time.”

 

He hated how his voice cracked. Of course, Larry caught it.

 

Larry laughed softly. “You figured correct.”

 

Why did his phone voice sound so hot?

 

There was a beat of silence, the kind that could’ve tipped either way. Sal’s pulse surged.

 

He took a breath. “Do you... have any plans for tomorrow?”

 

A pause. Then:

 

“How about today?”

 

Sal blinked. “Today?”

 

“Yeah.” Larry’s voice was low, a little playful. “You wanna hang out?”

 

“…Sure.”

 

“Cool. Come over.”

 

Sal opened his mouth. Closed it. “Now?”

 

“Unless you’re busy,” Larry said, clearly knowing he wasn’t. “My mom said she’d order pizza. You in?”

 

Sal hesitated. Then quietly: “Yeah. I’m in.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Larry grinned. Sal could hear it. “You still got a pen?”

 

“Why?”

 

“I’m about to give you the world’s worst directions.”

 

Sal huffed out a small laugh. "Fine, okay," he said. Although the mask slightly muffled his voice, Larry still picked up on the smile in his voice.

 

"Okay, get this down," Larry instructed, and Sal could hear the rustle of paper on the other end. "So, you're gonna head out of your place, obviously. Then, uh, turn right. Or maybe left? No, definitely right. Unless your street is weird. Just go right."

 

Sal scribbled it down, a smile playing on his lips. "Got it. Right. Probably."

 

"Exactly! See, you're a natural. Then you go past the big oak tree – you know, the one that looks like it's seen some things. Kinda like the rec center one, but smaller. If you hit the gas station, you've gone too far. Turn around and pretend you didn't. Nobody's judging."

 

Sal laughed, a genuine, unforced sound. "Okay, so, the fucked-up oak tree. Got it."

 

"Perfect. After the oak, take the third left. Not the second, that's my neighbor Brenda's house, and she'll try to sell you Tupperware. Unless you need Tupperware, avoid at all costs. Third left."

 

"No Tupperware for me today, thanks," Sal said, trying to keep a straight face. "Third left."

 

"Awesome. Then you just kinda… keep going. My house is, like, the one with the slightly crooked mailbox. And the really cool lawn gnome. You can't miss him. He's got a fishing rod."

 

"A gnome with a fishing rod," Sal repeated, feeling a lightness he hadn't in weeks. "Sounds… unique."

 

"He's a legend. His name is Terry. Alright, you got all that, or should I start over with a map drawn on a napkin?" Larry's voice was full of amusement.

 

"I think I've got it," Sal said, even though his "directions" looked more like a cryptic treasure map from Peter Pan. "See you in a bit."

 

Larry in fact did not see him in a bit. And Sal took way too long getting ready. His overthinking of everything took a noticeable toll on his performance time.

 

Sal changed at least three outfits before coming to a decision — a beige Dr. Pepper shirt that he had absolutely no idea where he got, paired with some black jeans that were dangerously close to falling off of his hips — held by a thin, brown belt. And to be extra not disgusting, he sprayed some cologne that was gifted to him for his 12th birthday by his grandma.

 

He was kinda hot now. Well, he hoped he was. No time to waste now.

 

He got to the Johnson residence after twenty minutes, three wrong turns, and a near-death experience involving Brenda and a catalog of limited-edition Tupperware lids.

 

The oak tree had seen things. It loomed at the corner like a broken NPC, gnarled and dramatic, casting weirdly judgmental shadows onto the cracked sidewalk. Sal passed it like it might follow him. Then came the third left — which he almost missed because he was too busy rehearsing what to say when Larry opened the door.

 

"Hey."

Too short.

"Nice house."

Why would he say that? That’s weird.

"Thanks for the invite, I like your lawn gnome."

Absolutely not.

 

He sighed and kept walking.

 

The neighborhood was quieter here. Older. Some houses had peeling paint, a few had Halloween decorations even though it was July. Sal stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared down at the sidewalk, counting the cracks.

 

This was… different.

 

He hadn't just been invited somewhere before. Not like this. Not without an agenda. Not by someone who made him feel—

 

He stopped himself. No use getting weird about it now.

 

The crooked mailbox came into view before the house did. It leaned slightly left, like it had just survived a hurricane and didn’t want to talk about it. And beside it, just as promised, was the gnome.

 

Terry.

 

He had a fishing rod and a chipped hat, and for some reason, his painted-on eyes made Sal feel like he was being judged.

 

Sal stood at the edge of the yard, heart suddenly loud in his ears.

 

He adjusted his belt, smoothed his shirt, and stepped forward.

 

He was about to knock when the door swung open.

 

Larry stood there, barefoot, still damp from a recent shower, waves dripping at the tips. A loose, paint-splattered shirt clung to his shoulders like it didn’t quite belong to him. He looked like summer and chaos and comfort, all rolled into one person.

 

His grin was instant. “Dude. You made it.”

 

Sal blinked, stupidly.

 

“Didn’t even get lost,” Larry added, like it was a miracle. “Proud of you.”

 

Sal shrugged. “Almost bought Tupperware.”

 

Larry barked out a laugh. “You would be Brenda’s type."

 

“C’mon in,” Larry said, stepping aside with a little flourish. “Ignore the mess. And the smell. And anything my mom says.”

 

Sal stepped past him into the house, trying very hard not to register how warm Larry was in passing. Or how good he smelled — something clean, like soap and maybe paint thinner.

 

The inside of the Johnson house was… chaotic in a comforting way. There were canvases leaning against walls, half-done sketches taped to the fridge, and a weird smell of acrylics and oregano that somehow worked. A pair of flip-flops sat in the middle of the hallway like they’d died there.

 

“Shoes off?” Sal asked automatically.

 

Larry shrugged. “Only if you want. But fair warning, the floor’s probably half glitter and half Cheetos crumbs.”

 

Sal toed off his boots anyway and followed Larry through the house.

 

Lisa was in the kitchen, humming to herself and stirring a pot of something red and bubbling. She had a spoon questionably perched behind one ear and a pair of reading glasses perched on her head like a tiara. When she saw them, her eyes lit up.

 

“Hey, kid!” she said to Sal. “Glad you didn’t get Tupperware-napped.”

 

Sal gave her a sheepish nod. He still couldn't believe she was Larry's mom, even though he looked like a spitting image of her. “Made it out alive.”

 

Larry flopped onto the couch, legs splayed like a lazy cat, and patted the cushion next to him. “You want pizza or Mom’s weird pasta thing? She calls it ‘experimental.’ That’s not reassuring.”

 

“I heard that!” Lisa called from the kitchen.

 

“You were supposed to!” Larry yelled back, grinning.

 

Sal sat, slow and careful, like the couch might eat him. Larry tossed him a throw pillow anyway, which he instinctively hugged like a shield.

 

“So,” Larry said, stretching out. “You nervous?”

 

Sal glanced at him, startled. “What?”

 

Larry smiled, softer this time. “You look nervous.”

 

“I always look nervous.”

 

“Fair point." He paused. “You don’t have to be. It’s just me.”

 

And somehow that made it worse.

 

Sal nodded once. “Okay.”

 

They sat there for a moment. The TV was on in the background, muted, playing some old cartoon. Lisa was still humming. Outside, a lawnmower buzzed somewhere far away. It was one of those moments that wasn’t loud or quiet — just full.

 

“You wanna go up to my room?” Larry asked eventually.

 

Sal blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

“Cool. You can meet my wall of terrible band posters.”

 

Larry stood and offered a hand. Sal took it. His fingers were rough, warm, paint-stained.

 

This time, Larry didn’t let go right away. He gave Sal’s hand the smallest squeeze — just enough to say, Hey. You’re good. You’re here.

 

Larry’s room was tucked into the corner of the house, down a hallway lined with wonky family photos and a painting of a cat that Sal suspected was ironically framed.

 

When the door opened, the first thing that hit Sal was the smell — warm and lived-in. Not gross, but definitely boy. A mix of sweat, paint, old books, and whatever shampoo Larry used.

 

The room itself was messy in a curated way. Posters of old romance movies and obscure bands lined the walls, some tacked up with washi tape, others curling slightly at the corners. A shelf was dedicated entirely to CDs and worn vinyls, stacked like crooked teeth. A mini stereo sat beside them, currently blinking blue. There were canvases in various stages of progress leaning against the far wall — a few abstract, a few weirdly beautiful.

 

And in the center of it all was Larry, arms stretched above his head as he yawned, his shirt riding up just enough to show a strip of his stomach.

 

Sal did not look.

 

“Well,” Larry said, flopping backward onto his bed like it owed him money, “welcome to my bat cave.”

 

“It’s not as terrifying as I thought it’d be,” Sal said, stepping inside. “I mean, you’ve got actual furniture. And shelves. That’s more than I can say.”

 

“You thought I’d be sleeping on the floor with, like, feral raccoons or something?”

 

Sal smirked. “Maybe.”

 

Larry grinned. “I would sleep on the floor if the raccoons were cool enough.”

 

Sal’s eyes flicked across the vinyls. “You actually listen to all of these?”

 

Larry sat up. “Hell yeah. Want me to put something on?”

 

Sal nodded, and Larry jumped up, flipping through his collection like he was flipping tarot cards. “Okay. You’re giving off, like… The Cure on cassette energy, but also maybe something more dramatic. Bowie? Or is it too obvious?”

 

Sal raised a brow. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me ‘Bowie energy’ before.”

 

Larry looked over his shoulder. “It’s the mask. And the mystery. You’re totally a glam rock enigma.”

 

Sal rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

 

Larry finally picked a record and slid it onto the turntable. A gentle guitar riff filled the room, low and crackling.

 

“Cool,” Sal murmured, looking around. He pointed to a sketch pinned near the door. “Is that supposed to be a goat?”

 

Larry tilted his head. “That’s me in third grade drawing a velociraptor.”

 

“…Looks like a goat.”

 

“Rude,” Larry said, mock offended. “You’re a guest in my home.”

 

“Guess you should’ve drawn a better velociraptor.”

 

Larry chucked a rolled-up sock at him, which Sal barely dodged.

 

They ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor, backs against the side of Larry’s bed, a box of stale Oreos between them. The music played on, one of those meandering, moody rock albums that seemed to melt into the walls.

 

“So,” Larry said, mouth full of cookie, “what made you finally call?”

 

Sal blinked. “What?”

 

“You’ve had my number for, like, what, a week and a bit? You looked like you were gonna have a heart attack every time I waved at you.”

 

Sal stared at the carpet. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious. About… wanting to hang out.”

 

Larry nudged him with his knee. “I was.”

 

“I know that now.”

 

Larry looked at him for a second longer than necessary, then reached over and snagged another Oreo. “Well, glad you finally gave in. I was about to resort to carrier pigeons.”

 

Sal laughed under his breath. “Pigeons feel very on-brand for you.”

 

“Oh, 100%,” Larry said. “They’re chaotic, loud, probably have diseases, and yet somehow still kind of charming.”

 

He turned his head toward Sal, grinning.

 

Sal met his gaze for a second, then looked away, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were sitting. His shoulder brushed Larry’s with each shift. The tension curled in low, unspoken, but undeniable.

 

He cleared his throat. “So, uh… Lisa is your mom?”

 

Larry raised his eyebrows, still smiling. “Did you seriously not know?”

 

“No one told me.”

 

“Touché.” Larry laughed.

 

Sal laughed along with Larry, relaxing. “She seems… cool.”

 

“She is. Kinda annoying, but, like, in a ‘makes you soup when you're sad’ way.”

 

Sal smiled faintly. “That’s rare.”

 

“Yeah.” Larry glanced at him, something softer flickering in his expression. “She likes you, by the way.”

 

Sal shrugged. “She barely knows me outside of class.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. She’s got a good radar for people who need... I dunno. Somewhere soft to land.”

 

There was a pause. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just real.

 

Sal looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You always say weird shit like that?”

 

“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Sal snorted, throwing his head back.

 

Larry smirked and leaned back on his elbows. “Kidding. Kinda.”

 

“You’re insufferable.”

 

“I’ve been called worse.”

 

They sat there a while longer, listening to the record spin and crackle in the background, both pretending not to notice how their knees stayed pressed together.

 

"What's your favorite food?" Larry asked, nudging Sal with his shoulder.

 

"What?" Sal asked, nudging Larry back.

 

"What's your favorite food?" Larry asked again, this time slower.

 

"Why are you so random?"

 

"I asked, what's your favorite food?" Larry repeated himself the third time, his voice deeper.

 

Sal huffed out a small laugh, looking away. "Fuck, you’re weird." He said, making Larry chuckle softly. "I guess ice cream? It's easier to eat. Y'know. With my whole… situation." He said, gesturing to his face.

 

Larry raised an eyebrow. "Easier to eat?" he echoed, seemingly in thought. "What do you mean?" he asked, tilting his head. But it wasn't invasive. Or mocking. It felt like genuine curiosity.

 

Sal paused. "Well… with my mouth?" he said, letting out a soft laugh. Maybe from embarrassment.

 

Larry chuckled. "Yeah, I got that. But what makes it easier?" he asked. Sal felt like he was genuinely interested.

 

"Uh…" Sal trailed off, his eyes fixating on a navy blue band poster taped with old, red tape. "I guess it's easier because… well, I've got… scarring. On my face. That's why I wear the mask. And the scarring makes it a bit challenging to eat some foods." Sal said, his voice surprisingly light. He wasn't used to talking about this. But he could see Larry's actual interest in the subject, and it made him really want to talk about it with him. Sal felt like Larry carried no judgment when hearing Sal talk. And that kind of wowed him.

 

"I didn’t know that. Sal." Larry admitted, leaning back on his hands. "That must be hard. Like, to deal with." He said, his voice a bit softer than before.

 

Sal let out a heavy sigh. He really hoped Larry wasn't entirely appalled by him now. "I'm used to it. It's been a long time."

 

"Can I ask when it happened?" Genuine curiosity.

 

"I was six." Sal said, pausing, before speaking again. "I lost my mom. In that incident. It was hard. But it was a long time ago. I'm fine now."

 

Larry gave Sal a slow, understanding nod, even though he didn't seem to be buying Sal's "I'm fine" remark.

 

"And what about your dad?"

 

"My dad?" Sal asked, his voice cracking just a small bit.

 

"Yeah. Is he in the picture?"

 

"Yeah, you could say that." Sal said.

 

There was a beat of silence after that sentence. Larry knew exactly what Sal meant. He nodded slowly before breaking the silence. "You're complicated dude, Sal," he said, his voice deep and surprisingly warm.

 

"...In a good way." Larry quickly added.

 

"Thanks." Sal said.

 

"What's your favorite food?" Sal asked, changing the subject. And just like that, the conversation switched from heavy talking to cracking up over a dumb joke Larry said about pizza.

 

Sal liked that about them. That they could go from serious to dumbasses in just a few seconds. It was nice. He'd never had a relationship like that.

 

"Wait, wait, hold on, you've gotta hear this—" Larry said, getting up. "You've gotta hear this, dude. Todd and I made this one back in 8th grade. It's like, the worst mix of nu metal and sappy garbage you've ever heard."

 

"You made a mix tape?" Sal asked, grinning.

 

"Oh, yeah. It was my love letter to emotional damage." Larry said, looking back at Sal over his shoulder. Sal laughed heartily.

 

"Shit, Larry. You’re a fucking mess, God," Sal laughed, throwing his head back. "Answer me this, okay? How many Britney Spears songs are in there?"

 

"I'll tell you only if you promise not to judge me."

 

Sal looked at him, unimpressed. Larry picked up on that and sighed, stopping the search for the tape.

 

"Two."

 

Sal raised an eyebrow behind his mask. "Only two? I thought you were gonna say ten or something."

 

Larry put a hand to his chest, feigning deep offense. “Sal. Salvatore. I’m hurt. I would never disrespect the queen like that. Three, minimum.”

 

Sal snorted. “Now that’s more like it. In a reformed world, you would actually go by that, and not disrespect her like this. Disgusting." He said, making Larry laugh.

 

"And my name is not Salvatore," he corrected him.

 

"My apologies, Salvatore.," Larry grinned.

 

He returned to rummaging through the plastic crate of CDs. “You ever hear her unreleased track about being trapped in a haunted mall with nothing but lip gloss and regret?”

 

Sal blinked. “…Is that real?”

 

Larry grinned wickedly. “No. But you believed me.”

 

“You’re unwell.”

 

“I contain multitudes.”

 

He finally found the CD — the case cracked, sharpie scrawled across the front in crooked letters: Songs to Cry and Punch Walls To Vol. 1. He held it up triumphantly, like it was a relic from an ancient civilization.

 

“You’re really gonna make me listen to this, huh?” Sal asked, amused.

 

“Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.”

 

Larry popped it in, and the stereo whirred like it might explode. The speakers kicked on with a dramatic guitar riff followed immediately by… something that sounded like a twelve-year-old screaming into a tin can.

 

Sal stared.

 

Larry nodded along solemnly. “Art.”

 

Sal buried his face in the throw pillow and wheezed.

 

They spent the next hour on the floor, flipping through CDs, talking about nothing. Music. Food. Middle school nightmares. Sal admitted he cuts his own bangs with safety scissors. Larry admitted he once cried during Finding Nemo and blamed it on allergies. Sal said same.

 

Time slipped. Somehow, it stopped feeling new.

 

Eventually, Lisa called from the kitchen, something about dinner and pizza coupons, and Larry got up with a groan.

 

Sal didn’t move at first.

 

He looked around the room — the band posters, the scattered socks, the crooked tower of CDs, the wall of half-finished canvases and glitter. The weird comfort of it all.

 

Sal let it sink in for a bit before getting up too, stretching his arms overhead and following Larry’s voice down the hall.

 

The kitchen was warm in a way most kitchens weren’t. It smelled like oregano and garlic bread and something vaguely burnt. The overhead light was too yellow, flickering slightly, but it suited the room — all cluttered counters and magnets shaped like fruit. Lisa stood at the stove in an apron that said Kiss the Cook or Else, holding a pizza box in one hand and waving a spatula with the other.

 

“About time,” she said, handing Larry the box. “This one’s pepperoni, but I took the liberty of picking off the mushrooms since your friend looked like he might be a picky eater.”

 

“I’m not picky,” Sal mumbled.

 

“Oh, honey,” Lisa said, winking. “You look like you appreciate good taste. That’s different.”

 

Larry groaned and dropped the pizza on the table. “Please ignore literally everything she says.”

 

“I raised you with too much love and now look what happened,” she sighed dramatically, retreating to the fridge. “Water? Soda? Mystery juice?”

 

Sal blinked. “What kind of mystery?”

 

“The fun kind. Might be punch. Might be expired kombucha. Life’s a gamble.”

 

Sal smiled behind the mask. “I’ll stick with water.”

 

“Coward,” Lisa teased, but poured him a glass anyway.

 

They all settled at the small table, cluttered with opened mail and a vase of fake sunflowers. Larry leaned his elbows on the wood, already halfway through a slice, sauce on the corner of his mouth. Sal hesitated, peeling off his mask just enough to eat. He kept his head slightly down, chewing slow, but nobody stared.

 

Lisa talked like a sitcom character — colorful, slightly unhinged, and always funny. She told a story about how Larry once tried to make toast using a hair straightener. Larry protested, claiming it was science. Sal laughed so hard he nearly choked.

 

At some point, Lisa slipped out to take a phone call, giving them a moment of quiet.

 

Sal nudged Larry’s foot under the table. “Your mom’s cool.”

 

“Told you,” Larry said around a bite of crust. “She acts like a sitcom mom because she was raised on Golden Girls and unmedicated vibes.”

 

“I think she likes me.”

 

“Oh, she definitely does. But more importantly—” Larry leaned in slightly, “I like you.”

 

Sal looked up, surprised. Larry’s voice wasn’t teasing this time. Just honest.

 

“Not, like, in a freak-you-out way,” Larry added quickly. “Just… I dunno. It’s been a long time since I wanted someone to hang around.”

 

Sal didn’t say anything at first. But his knee pressed more deliberately into Larry’s under the table.

 

“I’m glad I came over,” he said quietly.

 

Larry smiled. “Me too.”

 

Outside, the cicadas started buzzing. The kitchen felt full and warm, like something Sal had only ever watched from a distance. He’d never been in a house where people talked with their mouths full or teased each other so easily. Where someone called him “sweetheart” and meant it.

 

Larry bumped their knees again. “Wanna hang out again tomorrow?”

 

Sal blinked. “Don’t you ever get tired of people?”

 

“I get tired of most people instantly,” Larry said. “I guess you’re just not most people.”

 

Sal didn’t know what to say to that.

 

So he just nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow.”

 

Larry grinned and leaned back, looking stupidly proud of himself.

 

The rest of the night passed with more jokes, more music, and a vague plan to hit up the record store near the rec center — “if Larry could find his wallet and Sal could find the nerve.”

 

They didn’t say goodbye when Sal left.

 

Just

“Later.”

And

“See you.”

 

And that felt like enough.

 

 

 

Larry watched him leave, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

 

He flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling with a half-smile. It might’ve been his delusions, but he could swear the room smelled like Sal.

 

“Shit,” he muttered, smiling to himself. “I think I’m screwed.”

 

Chapter 7: Monsters, From A-Z

For Sal, a day with Larry was a day in heaven.

 

But not really. Not quite. Because heaven was supposed to be calm. Peaceful. Quiet.

 

And for Sal, a day with Larry was a storm. A typhoon of feelings, of overthinking. Of tension. Not bad tension, not at all. But the kind of tension that made Sal unsure of whether he wanted to stay there forever or jump out of a window.

 

Sal had never, ever felt like this. Not once in his life.

This was an entirely new feeling.

 

And he was scared shitless.

 

"Sal? Earth to Sally Face?"

 

Larry's voice cut through his thoughts. Sal quickly snapped his head up from the floor, eyes immediately on Larry, who was busy painting his nails. Larry's eyes met his, and for a moment, Sal swore he could see the look in his eyes change, just for a split second.

 

Shit. He was overthinking this too much again.

 

"Can you paint my nails? I suck at this," Larry asked with clear frustration in his voice. In the background, the TV played some shitty, romantic '80s movie that made Sal's skin crawl. Larry's pick. Of course it was Larry's pick. And of course, Sal would probably watch ten more of those movies if it meant sitting this close again.

 

How could such a masculine, hot, clever guy have such a shitty taste in movies?

 

Sal sucked some air through his teeth. "Yeah. Sure. But turn off that movie, dammit," he begged, taking the nail polish from Larry's hands.

 

"Only if you paint my nails. And if you mess up, I will bite your head off. Don't fuck with me," Larry threatened, pointing his finger at Sal.

 

Sal rolled his eyes dismissively. "Just turn it off," he said, changing his position to sit directly in front of Larry. "Give me your hands," he ordered, even though inside, he was borderline screaming. The sheer physical proximity between them was intoxicating.

 

Larry smirked before grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. Now, they were left in silence, which was somehow worse.

 

Larry put his hands on the floor in front of Sal. "Paint, Fisher."

 

Sal dipped the brush into the little glass bottle, carefully scraping the excess against the rim like he’d done a million times before. Only this time, his hands were shaking. Not visibly. Not in a way Larry could see, hopefully. But he could feel it. Every nerve was humming.

 

Larry stretched his fingers toward him, palms down. His hands were warm, tanned, filled with freckles and speckled with old paint and glitter that never quite washed off. Sal tried not to look too closely at the tiny scar on Larry’s thumb. Or at the way his hands flexed. Or at anything, really.

 

He took one hand, steadying it between his own. Larry didn’t move.

 

The first stroke of polish went on surprisingly smooth.

 

“Your nails are too big. No wonder you suck at this,” Sal muttered, focusing intently on the nail.

 

Larry huffed. “I suck at doing this. I didn’t say you would.”

 

Sal gave him a side glance. “So you’re just exploiting my skills.”

 

“Exactly,” Larry grinned. “That’s what friendship’s all about.”

 

Sal didn’t answer. He kept painting.

 

A few seconds passed in silence. Not the heavy kind. The kind that made the room feel like it had its own pulse — a low, slow rhythm neither of them dared interrupt.

 

After a minute, Larry tilted his head.

 

“You ever done this before?” he asked, watching Sal’s face more than his fingers.

 

“Yeah,” Sal said, voice soft. “My mom used to do hers at the table. I’d copy her. Even after—”

He stopped.

 

Larry didn’t press. Just nodded slowly. “Well. You’re good at it.”

 

Sal shrugged, trying not to smile. “You’ve got big nails.”

 

Larry raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

 

“It’s an observation.”

 

Larry leaned back slightly, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Well, Mr. Observation, don’t fuck up the thumb. That one’s my signature.”

 

Sal rolled his eyes, but his hands were steadier now.

 

They stayed like that for a while. Quiet. Close. Fingers touching, barely.

 

Larry stayed unusually still, letting Sal work. There was a kind of trust in it — letting someone get that close to your hands, your skin, your self. Sal didn’t take it lightly. Every brushstroke felt like a secret. A small one, but still.

 

He finished the left hand in silence, then took the right. Their hands brushed against each other. Sal didn’t move.

 

“Okay,” he said under his breath. “Same deal. Don’t flinch.”

 

“Wouldn’t dare,” Larry murmured. “You’re the boss.”

 

Sal paused mid-stroke. “Don’t call me that.”

 

Larry grinned, the kind of grin that made Sal’s stomach coil. “Sorry. You’re the artist. Is that better?”

 

Sal didn’t answer. Just kept painting.

 

The polish was a dark, navy blue — the kind that made Larry’s skin look even warmer. He’d chosen it without thinking, but now he wondered if it meant something. Deep. Bold. A little messy. Like Larry himself.

 

Halfway through the next finger, Larry let out a slow breath.

 

“You’ve got, like, freaky surgeon hands,” he muttered, watching intently. “Weirdly precise. It's kinda hot.”

 

Sal’s brush hovered. “You say the creepiest shit.”

 

Larry shrugged with a crooked grin. “Can't help it. I've got really specific tastes.”

 

That made Sal stop for a second. He looked up at Larry.

 

“That sounded way dirtier than it should’ve,” Sal muttered.

 

Larry leaned in just a little, voice low. “Yeah, I heard it too. Didn’t hate it though.”

 

Sal didn’t look up. His face was burning.

 

“Okay,” Sal said, shaking his head. “You’re not allowed to talk while I’m doing this.”

 

“Oh, so now you want quiet? You don't want me to talk?” Larry teased. “What happened to ‘turn off that awful movie’?”

 

“Movie noise is different. Movie noise doesn’t flirt with me.”

 

Flirt.

 

That slipped out before Sal could stop it.

 

Larry blinked. Just once. Then smiled wider.

 

“So you think I’m flirting.”

 

Sal swallowed, blood rushing to his face and ears. “Shut up.”

 

Larry didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

 

“You’re blushing.”

 

“No, I’m not—”

 

“Sal.” Larry leaned in, real close. His voice all low and deep and sexy in Sal's ear. “You are. Look at your ears. They're all red.” He chuckled.

 

Sal dropped his hand and shoved his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

 

Larry fell backward dramatically, waving his freshly painted fingers in the air. “And you just smudged the thumb! My signature, betrayed!”

 

Sal rolled his eyes. But he was smiling. He couldn’t help it.

 

Larry sat up again, still grinning. “You’re kinda fun when you’re flustered.”

 

“And you’re kinda tolerable when you’re not talking.”

 

“Ohhh, so we’re back to insults now? Great. That’s my love language.”

 

Sal froze just a second too long at that.

 

Larry must’ve noticed. Because suddenly the grin slipped, just a bit. “Hey, you good?”

 

“Yeah,” Sal said quickly. “Yeah. Just… I don’t think the blue suits you, actually.”

 

Larry raised both middle fingers. “You’re wrong and banned from my nail salon.”

 

Sal grabbed a tissue and started gently dabbing the smudged polish. Larry watched him work, this time without teasing. Just watching. That same look Sal had seen earlier. Quiet. Careful.

 

But he didn’t say anything.

 

He didn’t stay much longer. The silence between them never turned awkward, exactly — just full. Full enough to make Sal feel like if he breathed too deep, something might spill out of him.

 

So he left.

 

Not abruptly. Just… gently. A slow pulling away. Like peeling off a bandage that wasn’t ready to come loose yet.

 

The sky was turning a sickly orange by the time he made it back to his street. The air was heavy, summer-thick. He rubbed his thumb against the side of his hand without thinking.

 

Paint. He could still feel the dried polish.

Just the one nail.

 

“C’mon, let me do one,” Larry laughed, grinning like an idiot.

“Absolutely not.”

“Too bad.”

And just like that, Sal had found himself pinned under the weight of Larry’s smirk and one rough, steady hand holding his.

A streak of deep navy across his thumb.

“Now we match,” Larry had said. “Sorta.”

 

Despite Sal's initial distaste, he actually kind of liked the polish. Even if it was on just one nail. He couldn't explain it, but somehow, every time he 'accidentally' glanced at his thumb, his stomach started doing somersaults.

 

By the time Sal reached the elevator, the sky had shifted from orange to bruised purple. The front steps creaked under his weight, familiar and unfriendly. He hesitated, thumb still brushing absentmindedly over the navy polish. It had dried perfectly. Larry had made some dumb joke while it set — something about “salon etiquette” and tipping your artist in gummy bears. Sal hadn’t laughed then, but he was smiling now.

 

Only a little.

 

The apartment was quiet when he stepped in. Not silent — the TV was murmuring from the living room, the kind of low volume that meant someone was trying to be considerate, or unsure if they were allowed to be loud.

 

The air smelled like pizza. Grease and garlic and something else — something strange. Like effort.

 

He dropped his backpack by the door and walked toward the kitchen, shoulders tight, stomach coiled. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew better than to expect anything. His cat came running to him, rubbing against his shin. "Hey, Giz." He greeted him, leaning down to pet him.

 

The kitchen light was on.

 

There were two plates on the table. Two sodas. A box of pepperoni pizza, already opened, still warm. And next to it, something wrapped in gift wrap, sloppily folded, taped like someone hadn’t done this in a while. Or maybe ever.

 

His dad looked up from his seat and cleared his throat.

 

Sal didn’t move. He just stood there, one hand clenched in the fabric of his jeans, the other still lingering near his mouth — like he’d been caught mid-thought. Like he wasn’t supposed to be seeing this.

 

The TV clicked off in the next room. Henry stood slowly.

 

“Hey,” he said, awkward, quiet. “I—uh. Got your favorite.”

 

Sal didn’t say anything. Not yet.

 

Henry scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the gift, then back.

“I was thinkin’… maybe we could talk.”

 

Sal’s pulse jumped. But not in the same way it had with Larry. This was different. This was old. Heavy.

 

He nodded once, barely.

 

And then he sat down.

 

Henry sat across from Sal. Slow. Careful.

He took a deep breath before speaking, not meeting Sal's eyes.

 

"I'm sorry, Sally." He trembled. Sally. He hadn’t been called that in years. Not since his mom died.

 

Sal's breath caught in his throat. "F-For what?" he stammered. He knew for what.

 

"Everything. I'm sorry for everything. You deserve a better father, Sal. Better than me," he said. His voice sounded fatigued. Old. He sighed before talking again. "I'm thinking about trying rehab again. After your birthday." He admitted, dropping the bomb on Sal. Just like that.

 

Sal's heart skipped a beat. "Rehab?" he echoed, his eyes scanning his father's face. He could tell he was being honest. He looked depressed. Ashamed.

 

Henry hesitated at first, but nodded. “Yeah, bud.”

He paused, then added, “I know I screwed up. I know that. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. Been… scared to tell you, I guess. Afraid you’d think it was just another thing I’d promise and break.”

 

Sal didn’t respond right away. He was still looking at him — really looking — and it felt like something was shifting in his chest, tight and aching. His thumb grazed his other hand again. The polish caught the light.

 

“Don’t wait,” he said quietly. “Don’t wait for my birthday.”

 

Henry blinked. “What?”

 

“Just go. As soon as you can.”

Sal’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake. But it landed heavy between them.

“I’d rather have you there than here half-trying.”

 

Henry’s face folded. Not in anger — not even hurt, really. Just... tired. Sad. But he nodded.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Sal. I will.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Then Henry gestured to the wrapped box, still sitting awkwardly on the edge of the table.

“I, uh… that’s for you. I know it’s not your birthday yet. I just thought maybe…”

He trailed off.

 

Sal stared at the package for a second too long. The paper was wrinkled, taped unevenly. A kid could’ve wrapped it better. But it was something.

 

He pulled it toward him and peeled the tape loose without ceremony.

 

Inside was a worn hardcover book — one he hadn’t seen in years. The Monster Encyclopedia. Bright green letters. Dozens of pages he used to dog-ear so hard they practically stuck. He remembered reading it cover to cover in the backseat of the car during one of their moves. Monsters A–Z. Illustrations in full color. Some silly, some disturbing. All of them fascinating.

He hadn’t thought about it in ages.

 

“I found it at the bookstore," Henry said quietly. “Thought you might want it back.”

 

Sal stared down at it. The weight of it in his hands felt weird. Too small. Too familiar.

 

“I loved this,” he murmured.

 

Henry nodded, tentative. “Yeah. You used to make up your own monsters and draw ‘em next to the pages.”

 

Sal ran his painted thumb across the dog-eared corner of the Wendigo.

“I was twelve.”

 

“I know,” Henry said. “I just thought… I don’t know. Maybe it’ll remind you of something good.”

 

It did. But it also reminded him of everything that happened after.

 

Sal closed the book gently and set it down.

 

“Thanks,” he said. And he meant it. Just maybe not in the way his dad hoped.

 

Henry nodded. “You’re welcome.”

 

A few minutes of pure silence passed. Sal took a deep breath before speaking. "Why now, Dad?" he asked, his voice small. Barely audible.

 

Henry was taken by surprise at the question. It seemed that he wasn't sure how to answer. "I—" he sighed.

 

"I guess I just realized you're growing up. You're becoming... an adult. A real adult." He said, finally looking up at Sal. "And if I don't do anything soon, I might lose you forever. And that's the last thing I want to happen."

 

Sal nodded. Silently. He just didn't know how to respond to that.

 

They didn’t say much after that. Just ate the pizza, mostly in silence. Sal didn’t feel ready to forgive — not completely. But something had cracked open. Something real.

 

And when he went to his room later that night, the book under his arm and dried polish still shining faintly on his thumb, Sal paused before turning off the light.

 

He stared at the blue streak. At the weight of the day still clinging to him.

 

He didn’t know what was coming next — not with his dad. Not with Larry. Not with anything.

But for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t bracing for disaster.

 

Just waiting for what was to come.

Notes:

I just realized that I totally forgot to work Gizmo into the story (oops) the king deserves more screen time tbh.
Enjoy Reading !

Chapter 8: Something In The Air

Notes:

Sorry for the wait! Got a little busy. Anyways, here's this one monster of a chapter. Close to 7,000 words, so get comfy because this is going to be a long one (:

The air smelled like pancakes.

 

Sal blinked up at the ceiling. For a second, he forgot where he was. His mind took him back to Greenville — to that stale apartment with the yellowed kitchen tiles and the burnt taste of batter scraped off the pan.

 

Pancakes meant Saturdays. Meant Rick in the kitchen, pretending to be harmless. Meant forced smiles and too-sweet syrup and trying not to flinch when the spatula scraped too loud against the pan.

 

But the air here didn’t smell like that.

 

This was different.

Warmer. Realer.

 

Sal sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his face. His thumb brushed the corner of his mouth on instinct — a nervous tic, these days. The faint chip of navy polish was still there.

 

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the cold floor.

 

Outside his door, he could hear soft shuffling. A cabinet opening. The hiss of something on the stove.

 

It was his dad.

 

And for once, the thought didn’t make him recoil.

 

The hallway was dim, lit only by the pale morning sun leaking through the living room curtains. Sal padded out quietly, the floor cool beneath his bare feet, still not fully awake, still caught in the lingering haze of that in-between state — dream and memory clinging to his skin.

 

The smell of pancakes grew stronger the closer he got.

 

He didn’t think to grab his mask. Not consciously, at least. Maybe some part of him forgot. Or maybe some part of him didn’t want to hide.

 

He paused at the entrance to the kitchen.

 

Henry stood at the stove, back slightly hunched, a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other. He was wearing his old Metallica T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, hair a mess, eyes sunken with sleep — or maybe it was just the weight of the week. But he was up. Sober. Cooking.

 

Sal blinked again, as if the image would change. But it didn’t.

 

There was a plate on the counter already, a short stack of uneven pancakes. A coffee mug beside it — Henry’s chipped one with the "World’s Okayest Dad" faded on the side. The one that Sal gifted him for his birthday two years ago.

 

Sal stepped in.

 

The floor creaked.

 

Henry turned.

 

And for a moment, he just looked at Sal. His gaze lingered — not on the scars, not on the absence of the mask — but on his son’s eyes. Just his eyes.

 

“Morning,” Henry said, voice scratchy. Then, after a beat, softer: “You, uh… forgot your mask.”

 

Sal swallowed. “Yeah.”

 

Henry nodded. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t flinch. Just went back to the stove.

 

And it hit Sal then — not all at once, but in quiet pieces — how rare this was. This quiet. This peace. This version of his dad who wasn’t angry or gone or numbed into something else.

 

“You hungry?” Henry asked, after flipping the next pancake. His hand shook slightly — the withdrawal — but he steadied it.

 

"Yeah," Sal said, his throat too dry to continue. He needed coffee.

 

Henry wordlessly reached for the second mug on the counter — Sal’s. The one with the chipped skull handle they’d found at a garage sale last fall. He poured from the pot, black and hot, steam curling like ghosts between them.

 

Sal took it with a quiet nod. Their fingers didn’t touch, but something passed between them anyway. Something softer than before. Less defensive. Less afraid.

 

He sat down at the kitchen table. The wood was scarred with cigarette burns and old ring stains from beer bottles, like ghosts of worse mornings. But today, it just felt… lived in.

 

Henry slid a plate in front of him. Two pancakes. Lopsided. A little burnt on one side. No butter. Just syrup.

 

Sal stared at them.

 

He didn’t say thank you. Henry didn’t expect him to.

 

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Just the scrape of fork against plate. The occasional sip. No shouting. No slammed cabinet doors. No tension vibrating through the walls.

 

Sal’s eyes flicked up once. Henry was focused on his own plate, brows furrowed like he was solving a math problem with every bite. His hand trembled when he reached for the coffee, but he didn’t spill. Just gritted his teeth and rode it out.

 

“You didn’t have to,” Sal said finally, voice low.

 

Henry looked up.

 

“Y'know. Like, make breakfast.”

 

“I know,” Henry said. He set his fork down. “But I wanted to.”

 

That sentence landed like a stone in the middle of Sal’s chest. Not heavy. Just real.

 

“I… had a weird dream,” Sal said before he could stop himself. The words just tumbled out. “Thought I was back in Greenville for a second.”

 

Henry’s jaw tightened — just a bit. Enough for Sal to notice.

 

“Yeah,” Henry said after a pause. “Me too. Sometimes.”

 

Sal stared down at his plate.

 

“I hated that place,” he said.

 

“I know.” Henry’s voice cracked. “Me too.”

 

And that was it.

 

That was all they said about it.

 

No apologies. No big heart-to-hearts. Just the truth, finally left on the table between them — like old syrup, sticky and sad and too late, but still… there.

 

Sal looked out the window.

 

The sun was higher now. A car passed. A bird chirped. Somewhere in the building, a baby started crying.

 

But their apartment stayed quiet.

 

Peaceful.

 

And for once, Sal let it be.

 

"It was about the old place. The dream," Sal said suddenly, surprising even himself. He didn't expect himself to talk today.

 

Henry’s shoulders stiffened just slightly. He didn’t turn. “Yeah?”

 

“There were pancakes.”

 

This time, Henry looked over his shoulder. Confused, maybe. Or just curious.

 

Sal shrugged, trying to make it sound like nothing. “Just… weird, I guess. The timing.”

 

Henry’s jaw moved, like he was chewing on a response he wasn’t sure he should give. He turned back to the stove, quieter. “Guess we all remember different things.”

 

Another pancake landed on the stack, a little uneven.

 

“You used to ask for ‘em when you were a kid,” Henry added. Not looking at him. Not pressing. “Back when things were better. I don’t know if you even remember that.”

 

“I do,” Sal said, even though they weren't talking about the same thing.

 

Henry finally turned, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His eyes were darker than Sal remembered — not just tired, but bruised beneath. From sleep. From addiction. But they weren’t fogged. They weren’t gone.

 

“Sal,” he started, then stopped. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m… I know it’s gonna take a while. I know saying sorry doesn’t fix shit.”

 

Sal looked down at his coffee.

 

“But I’m trying,” Henry said. Quieter. “Harder than I ever have. And I know I don’t… I don’t deserve anything from you. But I want you to know that.”

 

Sal nodded once. “I know.”

 

Henry’s eyes flicked up. Hopeful. Careful.

 

“I don’t forgive you,” Sal added. Not cold — just honest.

 

Henry nodded. “Fair.”

 

“But this,” Sal said, motioning to the pancakes, to the kitchen, to the two of them standing there in the quiet, “This… matters. I just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

 

Henry swallowed. His hands curled into fists and then released again. “Take your time.”

 

Sal took another sip of coffee. His throat felt less dry.

 

And for the first time in a long time, Sal felt the urge to talk to his father.

 

Henry nodded to himself, leaning against the counter as he watched Sal take a sip of his coffee. After a few minutes of quiet, he finally spoke up. "So, r'you still hanging out with those kids?"

 

Sal looked up from his plate, eyebrow raised in question. "Which kids?"

 

"Y'know. The ones you hung out with the other day."

 

Sal blinked, his mind going blank for a moment, before answering. "Oh. Oh, yeah. I am. They're cool."

 

Henry nodded slowly, grabbing the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup of the dark liquid. He waited a few moments before speaking. "Are they good to you?"

 

Sal stirred the syrup on his plate with the edge of his fork, eyes fixed somewhere past the woodgrain.

 

“They are,” he said finally. Then, after a beat, quieter: “There’s this... guy. His name is Larry.”

 

Henry sipped his coffee, carefully watching his son over the rim of the chipped mug. He didn’t interrupt.

 

“He’s nice,” Sal said. And the words felt strange in his mouth — not because they were untrue, but because they meant something, and he wasn’t used to saying things that meant something out loud anymore. “Like, actually nice. Not the kind of nice where they’re just… polite, or fake about it. He’s loud and kind of a dick sometimes, but he means well. Like, really means it.”

 

Henry nodded slowly, letting him keep going.

 

“He gets it, I think. Not all of it, but he does. I don't know how to explain it." He said, smiling to himself. "He's just a really cool dude. I like him a lot."

 

A pause. Sal’s foot tapped under the table. Nervous energy. But his voice didn’t waver.

 

“And Ash. She’s—” Sal huffed a short laugh through his nose. “She doesn’t take shit from anyone. She's like this tiny force of nature. I think she’d punch a cop if you gave her half a reason.”

 

Henry let out a soft, surprised breath — not quite a laugh, but not disapproval either.

 

Sal looked up then, meeting his dad's eyes across the kitchen.

 

“They’re weird,” he said.

 

Henry quirked a brow. “Weird’s not always bad.”

 

Sal snorted. “No, I know. It’s good weird. Like… the kind that makes you feel okay being weird, too. Like you don’t have to explain it all the time.”

 

Henry’s fingers tightened slightly around the coffee mug. He nodded, once, like he understood more than he let on.

 

“They don’t look at me like I’m… broken,” Sal added, voice lower now. “Or like they’re waiting for me to say something wrong. They just… talk to me. Like I’m a person.”

 

“You are a person,” Henry said quietly.

 

Sal blinked, looked down again. “Yeah. I guess I’m starting to believe that.”

 

After that, the subject changed to Sal's favorite horror movie. And then to Henry's annoying coworkers. And then to Larry. Once again, it was Larry.

 

Always Larry.

 

Henry now knew Larry's middle name. And the reason Larry doesn't take mushrooms on pizza. And Larry's favorite color. And so much other unnecessary stuff abour Larry that Henry did not need to know.

 

They were talking. And it wasn't perfect. But it was progress. And it was enough.

 

 

Sunday Morning – Henry’s POV

 

Henry woke up with a weight in his chest.

 

Not the usual hangover heaviness — not today.

Today, it was just that dull pressure that came from being awake. Being present. And not having anything to numb it with.

 

His mouth was dry anyway. He hadn’t slept well. Dreamed of cracked glass and dripping faucets and his own voice shouting, though he couldn’t remember the words. Didn’t matter. He’d woken up without reaching for the drawer. That was something.

 

He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the wood grain floor like it might open up and swallow him if he looked long enough.

 

His hand twitched. Muscle memory. It still reached toward the nightstand before he caught it.

 

He swore under his breath. “Not today, man. Not today.”

 

He stood up and dragged himself toward the kitchen, stepping over a curled-up shirt on the floor and an empty cereal box by the trash. The place wasn’t exactly a disaster, but it wasn’t clean either. He hadn't had the energy lately to give a damn. But this morning — this morning he needed something to do with his hands.

 

So he opened the fridge. Eggs. Milk. Half a bag of chocolate chips.

There was a box of pancake mix shoved in the back of the cabinet.

He took it as a sign.

 

To Henry, making pancakes was like a quiet peace offering. It wasn't much — no, not at all. But it was something. And he liked to think it made things better.

 

Sally used to love them. Used to ask for little ones shaped like hearts or stars. He never asked anymore.                                                         

now it was just a sweet memory that got chased away by time.

 

He poured the batter carefully, ignoring how much his hands still shook. He focused on the whisking, the flipping, the timing. Something about the scent of the skillet warming up gave him a kind of peace — not happiness exactly, but a strange, quiet purpose.

 

He set the table without thinking. Two plates. Two forks. A bottle of syrup.

He wasn’t sure if Sal would even eat.

 

And then — footsteps.

 

Henry glanced up from the stove when he heard the floor creak behind him. At first, he expected to see an empty kitchen. It still happened sometimes — he imagined Sal there before he actually showed up, like his brain was rehearsing the possibility. But this time, it was real. Sal stood in the doorway, sleep-mussed hair falling into his face.

 

And no mask.

 

For a second, Henry froze.

 

Not because of how Sal looked — he didn’t flinch, didn’t stare. It wasn’t that. It was the sheer surprise of it. His boy, standing there like that, like he wasn’t hiding. Like he didn’t need to.

 

“Morning,” Henry said, voice scratchy with sleep and whatever was still stuck in his throat from last night.

 

Sal hesitated. His lips twitched — nervous, maybe, or bracing.

 

“You, uh… forgot your mask,” Henry added, gentler this time.

 

There was a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, not cold. Just weighty. Real.

 

“Yeah,” Sal said quietly.

 

Henry didn’t push. He didn’t ask why, or what it meant. He just flipped the pancake and watched it bubble in the pan.

 

But inside, something tugged loose in his chest.

 

Something warm.

 

The rest of the morning was slow. A little dark. A little sad. But it was okay. He kept looking at Sal. The real Sal. Maskless Sal. And he still couldn't believe he was seeing his face.

 

He kept thinking how lucky he was. How lucky he was that after all, Sal let him see his face. After all the words. All the insults. The mistakes. It was surreal. And it was beautiful. He was beautiful.

 

Yes, he was scarred. Heavily. He carried his disfigurement with him everywhere he went. He had no choice. But behind all the scars — Henry could see his little boy. He really could.

 

No one said anything for a while. Just forks and mugs and soft sounds of morning. Henry felt every second stretch out like it might snap if they pulled too hard.

 

And then Sal spoke — soft, like testing the air. Said he’d dreamed about Greenville.

 

Henry almost dropped his fork. That name still cracked something in his chest when he heard it. But he kept his voice even. Said he understood. He did. Too well.

 

He didn’t expect Sal to keep talking. But he did.

 

About his friends. About this kid, Larry — loud and funny and apparently allergic to mushrooms. About Ash, who Henry immediately decided he liked, just from the way Sal smiled when he said her name. About the rest of their friends. About how they treated him like he was normal. Like he wasn’t a ghost with skin.

 

Henry’s hands tightened around his mug.

 

“They look at me like I'm a person,” Sal had said.

 

Henry swallowed hard. “You are a person,” he said before he could stop himself.

 

Because he was. God, he was. Even if Henry had spent too many years making him feel otherwise.

 

Sal didn’t flinch. Just nodded, slow and quiet. And then he talked more.

 

About movies.

 

About Henry’s coworkers.

 

About Larry — always Larry.

 

Henry didn’t mind. Not really. Not when it meant hearing Sal’s voice again. Not when it meant knowing his kid had someone who made him laugh.

 

He sat there, listening, nodding, soaking in every word like it might disappear. Like Sal might disappear if he didn’t hold the moment carefully.

 

And Henry did worry. He worried a lot. He worried when they moved here — that Sal wouldn’t find friends again, that he wouldn’t be happy. That he would be alone again.

 

And maybe he didn’t know him that well anymore.

They weren’t strangers, but they weren’t far from it either.

Maybe Sal didn’t trust him like he used to.

Maybe he wasn’t his little boy anymore.

 

But when Henry saw that sparkle in Sal’s eyes as he talked about that boy… he knew he was going to be okay.

 

Because he remembered that sparkle —

When they passed by a candy shop.

When Sal sang with his mother.

When he beat him at hide-and-seek and ran laughing through the hallway.

 

And now? Now he saw it again. When Sal talked about Larry.

 

And Henry realized — as long as that boy was in his life, he didn’t need to worry so much.

 

 

 

Tuesday came too fast. Along with pancakes and too-hot coffees.

 

Sal didn’t mind the silence at breakfast. It was easier than explaining anything. Easier than naming whatever had shifted between them. His dad didn’t ask, and Sal didn’t offer. He just sipped the too-hot coffee, let it burn his tongue, and watched the sun crawl through the window like it was sneaking in too.

 

He left his plate half-finished and rinsed it in the sink. their relationship was getting better, but his dad's pancakes were certainly not making any serious improvements.

 

He took his time getting dressed today because he knew he'd probably see Larry. And he needed to look his best.

 

Not that Larry cared about stuff like that — Sal was pretty sure the guy would show up to his own funeral in ripped jeans and a hoodie — but still. It mattered.

 

He changed his shirt twice. Wiped the smudged eyeliner from under one eye and reapplied it slower this time, more carefully. Fixed his hair. Sort of. Not too much. He didn’t want it to look like he tried. Even if he did.

 

By the time he stepped out the door, his dad was on the couch, flipping through channels he wasn’t really watching. He glanced up, offered a small nod.

 

“Rec center?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Need a ride?”

 

Sal shook his head. “I’m good. I’ll walk.”

 

Henry didn’t argue. Just nodded. "Have fun."

 

And Sal nodded, fixing his shirt over his stomach, headphones already tangled in one hand, keys in the other. The door shut soft behind him.

 

The rec center always smelled like gym mats and lemon cleaner and faint, ancient popcorn — the kind that somehow lingered in the walls. It was loud in a way Sal didn’t mind. Kids shouting in the basketball court. Music echoing from the dance class down the hall. Voices bouncing off high ceilings.

 

He passed a couple of kids from his art class on the way in. One of them waved. Sal waved back without thinking.

 

Lisa was already setting up in the studio — brushes, water cups, the cracked box of shared paints.

 

“You’re late,” she said with a smirk.

 

“I’m on time,” Sal replied.

 

“You’re Sal Fisher. You’re always late.”

 

He snorted but didn’t argue.

 

They got to work. Lisa let him take the far corner like usual. She didn’t hover, didn’t pry. Just taught when he wanted her to and left him alone when he didn’t.

 

Today was quiet. Focused. He lost himself in the strokes — gray-blue skies, strange shapes forming behind fog. Something about painting calmed the noise in his head. Made the hours pass softer.

 

He stayed later than usual. Helped Lisa clean up. Then, after her class cleared out and the room was empty again, he wandered down the hall to room B17.

 

He didn't exactly know why. But his feet led him down the hall anyway, past the vending machine with the flickering light, past the dance studio still echoing with top 40 pop.

 

Room B17.

 

The door was opened just a crack. He peeked in.

 

Larry was there — alone now — perched awkwardly on one of those tiny plastic chairs meant for toddlers, knees practically at his chin, a pink miniature guitar resting on his lap. His fingers plucked out a slow, clumsy version of Wish You Were Here. It wasn’t perfect. The chords buzzed in places, and the guitar was definitely out of tune, but it was… sweet. Quiet. Careful in a way Larry usually wasn’t.

 

Sal lingered a second before knocking gently on the doorframe.

 

Larry looked up. Didn’t stop playing, just gave a grin that made Sal's chest do something unhelpful.

 

“Hey, Fisher,” he said, still plucking. “Come to judge my groundbreaking performance?”

 

Sal leaned on the door. “You’re gonna ruin that song for me.”

 

Larry scoffed, still smiling. “Rude.”

 

Sal stepped inside, eyes scanning the chaos — tambourines half-buried in what looked like a sea of glitter, juice boxes stacked like pyramids on the table, and drawings pinned to the back wall that made stick figures look like Picasso. “The place looks like a unicorn explosion.”

 

“Accurate,” Larry said. “Three of them had glitter glue today. I tried to stop them. It was a battle. I lost.”

 

He set the guitar down gently on the chair beside him and stood, brushing glitter off his jeans and failing miserably. “What’s up? Thought you’d be long gone by now.”

 

Sal shrugged. “Felt like staying.”

 

Larry tilted his head. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A beat passed. Larry’s eyes flicked to Sal’s shirt — the one he’d changed into twice — and maybe, just maybe, lingered for half a second too long.

 

“I was about to start cleaning up,” Larry said. “You wanna help me stack the drums of doom?”

 

Sal smirked. “Only if I get a juice box after.”

 

“Deal.”

 

They got to work side by side, collecting ukuleles and wiping sticky fingerprints off tables. Larry told him a story about one of the kids insisting she’d met a ghost in the bathroom mirror, and Sal laughed harder than he meant to. It was easy. Stupidly easy.

 

Too easy.

 

They moved in near-silence for a while, the kind that wasn’t awkward but something quieter — something softer than words. A shared rhythm. Larry tossed juice boxes into a tote bag while Sal wiped down the rainbow-colored xylophone, his sleeve catching a smudge of purple paint on the edge.

 

“You missed a spot,” Larry said, sidling up behind him and nudging the same paint smear with his thumb.

 

Sal glanced sideways. “I think that was your fault.”

 

“Could’ve been the kids,” Larry replied. “But yeah. Probably me.”

 

Sal handed him a rag without a word, and their fingers brushed — brief, but enough to make Sal’s breath catch in the back of his throat. Larry didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. He ducked his head and started wiping, uncharacteristically quiet.

 

They worked their way to the corner bins, gathering stray maracas, finger puppets, a limp sock puppet shaped like a shark.

 

Larry held it up. “This guy freaks me out.”

 

“He’s missing an eye.”

 

“And a soul.”

 

Sal raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure he’s your twin.”

 

Larry gasped, mock-hurt, and tossed the shark into the bin. “You wound me, Fisher.”

 

Sal smirked. “You’ll live.”

 

Another pause. The sun through the windows spilled in thick golden lines, catching the dust in the air like floating glitter. Larry crouched beside one of the bins and started stacking picture books.

 

Sal reached for the same one — a copy of The Giving Tree with crayon scribbles over the cover — and their hands touched again. Longer, this time. Neither of them moved right away.

 

Then Larry looked up, slowly. “You really don’t have anywhere better to be?”

 

Sal met his eyes. “Nope.”

 

Larry gave a small smile — not his usual cocky one, but something quieter. “Cool.”

 

He stood, stretching, shirt riding up slightly to reveal a tan stretch of stomach along with a small, delicate black tattoo in the shape of a sun, before he pulled it back down.

 

Sal looked away fast. “You’re kind of bad at cleaning.”

 

“I’m great at cleaning,” Larry argued. “I just have a unique system.”

 

“Is the system ‘make everything worse first’?”

 

Larry laughed. “It’s called chaotic optimization, thank you very much.”

 

They fell back into rhythm again, stacking plastic chairs, sorting broken crayons from whole ones, until only one last box was left to tape shut.

 

Larry held the flaps down while Sal reached for the tape. “So…” Larry said, casual. Too casual. “You gonna be at the rec tomorrow?”

 

Sal nodded, not looking up. “I'll think about it.”

 

“Cool. I’ll save you a seat. You know. For snack time.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” Sal said, dry.

 

“Only the best juice boxes for you, Fisher.”

 

They lingered again when everything was done. Larry looked at him — really looked — the way he sometimes did when he was trying to say something without saying it.

 

Then: “C’mon. I’ll drive you.”

 

Sal followed him outside, into the cooling evening. The warmth of the day clung to the pavement, and cicadas buzzed in the distance.

 

They got into Larry’s car — an ancient, washed-out red pickup truck that smelled faintly of weed and pine air freshener — and sat for a second before Larry turned the key.

 

As the engine sputtered to life, Sal glanced over. “You ever gonna tune that guitar?”

 

Larry grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just make it a personality trait.”

 

Sal shook his head, trying not to smile.

 

They pulled out of the parking lot slowly, windows down, wind curling around them like a half-formed song.

 

Somehow, Larry already knew exactly where Sal lived. Maybe he remembered. Maybe he was a stalker. Sal wasn't sure which was worse.

 

The ride was fast. Loud. Full of wind and the kind of laughter that made your ribs hurt. Larry was mid-story — some wild tale about how ten-year-old him uncovered an affair between his fourth-grade teacher and his friend’s dad — complete with dramatic voices and scandalized gasps. By the time he mimed catching them behind the bleachers, Sal was doubled over, wheezing, tears in his eyes, stomach aching from how hard he was laughing.

 

After a few minutes, their laughter had mostly faded, leaving behind a string of dumb little jokes Larry had slipped in — the kind that stuck in Sal’s head and made him wheeze all over again, even in the quiet.

 

“Dude, what are you laughing at?” Larry asked, his chuckles breathy and a little worn out. His eyes stayed on Sal, scanning his masked face — like he could read him anyway.

 

“Nothing,” Sal said, still grinning beneath the mask. “You just… say shit and it sticks in my head.”

 

Larry smirked. “I’m like a poet. A really dumb one.”

 

Sal laughed again, shaking his head. “Fourth-grade teacher and your friend’s dad. Jesus.”

 

“Told you it was true.”

 

The engine purred as the car rolled to a stop in front of Sal’s building. For a moment, they didn’t move — the car idling like it knew better than to interrupt.

 

Sal finally reached for the handle. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, quieter now.

 

But before he could pull the door open, Larry leaned over and caught his wrist — gently. Surprisingly gently. Stupidly gently. “Wait.”

 

Sal froze. His heart did a stupid thing.

 

Larry pushed his own door open and got out, circling the car. Sal watched him through the window, confused, until Larry yanked the passenger door open for him.

 

“There,” Larry said, grinning like a little shit. “Chivalry.”

 

Sal blinked up at him. “Seriously?”

 

Larry shrugged. “Let me have my moment.”

 

And even though it was dumb, even though it made no real sense — Sal stepped out, a little slower than usual, and mumbled, “Thanks, I guess.”

 

“Anytime, prince charming.”

 

Sal didn’t even have it in him to be annoyed — not really. Not with the way Larry was looking at him. So he just let out a soft, breathy giggle, barely audible, and gave him a small nod.

 

Larry leaned against the truck with a dumb, lopsided grin on his face — the kind that made Sal feel like gravity shifted just slightly under his feet. The sunset bled gold and amber across the sky, and in its light, Larry’s deep honey-brown eyes shimmered, catching every warm hue like stained glass. It made Sal choke on breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

 

The breeze toyed with Larry’s hair, sweeping it back from his face in soft waves. For once, it looked like something out of a movie — the way his hair moved, the way the colors lit his skin, the way he stood. His usual slouch had lifted; his shoulders were square, his spine straight, like something inside him had decided to be seen. Like he gave a damn, even if just for this moment.

 

And Sal stared — just for a second too long. Because Larry looked unreal in that light. Like someone out of a dream Sal forgot he ever had.

 

Larry lifted a hand and waved suddenly, that grin of his widening a little.

Sal blinked, confused. “What are you—?”

Then he turned, following Larry’s line of sight.

 

And there he was. His dad, leaning over the rusted balcony railing of their second-floor apartment, a cigarette glowing between two fingers. Watching.

 

Sal stiffened. Not enough for Larry to notice, hopefully — just enough to feel the air shift.

 

“Oh,” he muttered, quieter than he meant to. “Right.”

 

He wasn’t sure why it embarrassed him. Larry wasn’t saying anything. Wasn’t making a face. Wasn’t doing anything other than being friendly, waving at a man who looked down on everyone like it was muscle memory. But still.

 

“Didn’t realize he was out there,” Sal mumbled.

 

Larry gave a little shrug, casual. “He’s got a good view. Sunset’s insane tonight.”

 

And just like that, the tension bled out of the moment.

 

“Alright,” Larry said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

 

Sal hovered by the bottom step, one hand on the railing, the other fidgeting with his belt. The night was warm, but he didn’t want to leave just yet. Larry looked so casual, hands in his pockets, that lopsided grin still lingering from something Sal had said earlier. It made something ache in his chest. Not in a bad way.

 

Larry started to turn, already heading toward the truck. And Sal — without thinking — called softly, “Hey.”

 

Larry stopped. Looked back. “Yeah?”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Then Sal stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.

 

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth. His arms were a little too stiff at first, his face angled away like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. But he held on.

 

Larry went still for a second, caught completely off guard.

 

Then he exhaled, soft and surprised, and hugged him back.

 

For a few quiet seconds, it was just the two of them under the porch light, pressed together like they’d done this a thousand times before. Like it was safe. Like it meant something neither of them had the words for yet.

 

Sal pulled away first. Not abruptly, just enough.

 

“Thanks,” he said, voice quiet. “I- um, for the ride. Yeah,” he uttered.

 

Larry gave him a crooked smile and a small chuckle, eyes a little softer than usual. “Anytime, Sal.”

 

“See you soon?” Sal asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he glanced up at Larry through his lashes. There was something wide and open in his eyes — something hesitant and shining, like starlight caught in water.

 

The look made Larry go still for a heartbeat.

 

Then, slowly, his grin spread — softer this time, less cocky and more… awed, like he couldn’t quite believe Sal was real. The glow of the sunset flickered against his face, painting golden streaks over his cheekbones and the curve of his mouth.

 

“You better,” Larry said, but the words came out quieter than usual — airy and cautious, like a wish spoken into a glass jar. Like he thought that if he said it too loud, the moment would vanish. Like Sal might vanish.

 

They stood there for a second too long, the space between them humming with something unspoken.

 

And neither of them moved, not really. But something shifted all the same.

 

Slowly, carefully - Sal turned and climbed the steps. He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

 

Inside, the door creaked when he pushed it open.

 

His dad was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of something lukewarm and probably alcoholic. Or maybe not. He looked sober enough. Sal didn’t press it.

 

Henry didn’t say anything at first. Just glanced up when Sal walked in.

 

“You were out late,” he said eventually. Not accusing. Just an observation.

 

Sal nodded, kicking off his shoes. “Yeah. Was at the rec center… Larry was there.”

 

Henry looked at him for a beat. “Really?”

 

Sal tensed slightly. “Yeah.”

 

A pause.

 

“Is he the one you were with just now?”

 

Sal blinked. “You saw? Everything?”

 

His dad gave a small grunt. “Kinda hard to miss someone hugging my kid like that on the front steps.”

 

Sal’s face flushed under his mask.

 

There was another pause. Then, to his surprise, Henry added: “He seems nice.”

 

Sal looked at him, unsure if that was genuine approval or just… neutral observation.

 

His dad didn’t elaborate. Just took a slow sip and said, “Didn’t think you were the hugging type.”

 

“I’m not,” Sal mumbled, heading toward his room. “Guess that’s why it freaked me out.”

 

His dad gave an amused chuckle. “Huh. Freaked him out too, probably.”

 

Sal didn’t respond, but his lips tugged up just a little as he shut the door behind him.

 

Henry's Pov

The balcony creaked under his weight, but Henry didn’t move. He leaned on the railing, cigarette burning between two fingers, watching the street below as the sky sank into rust and fire.

 

He hadn't come out here to keep an eye on his boy — not really. It was just the kind of evening that made the walls feel too close. One of those dusks that stirred things in the chest you didn’t have words for. So he stepped out. Let the smoke curl up and out of his lungs. Let the quiet settle.

 

Then the truck pulled up. Red. Beat up.

 

He watched it roll to a stop in front of the building. No movement. Just the hum of the engine and two silhouettes caught in pause.

 

Larry.

 

Henry couldn’t say he knew the kid — hadn’t said a word to him yet — but he knew him, in that way a father sometimes does. The way Sal had talked about him — just enough to give himself away. Enough for Henry to see what was underneath.

 

They didn’t get out. Not right away.

 

Henry watched Larry lean over inside the cab, saw Sal twitch a little in surprise. Then Larry opened his own door and walked around, pulling the passenger side open like it was 1952 and he had something to prove.

 

Henry almost laughed. Chivalry, huh?

 

He took another drag, watching Sal get out. Watched them exchange something small and quiet. Watched Larry beam like someone who didn’t care how stupid he looked. It wasn’t a show. It wasn’t posturing. That grin was earned. Henry had known guys like that, once. The kind who didn’t know how to fake affection because they never had to.

 

Then Larry looked up. Right at him.

 

And — without missing a beat — he waved.

 

Henry didn’t flinch. Just lifted two fingers off the railing and tipped them in return. Nothing big. Just enough.

 

Sal turned a second later, caught sight of him, and Henry could feel his son go stiff from all the way up here. Like a wire had snapped tight across his shoulders. Like he’d been seen when he hadn’t meant to be.

 

That, too, made Henry want to laugh. Or maybe ache, a little. He knew that posture.

 

He let it go.

 

They talked a bit more. Henry didn’t strain to hear it. Wasn’t about that.

 

He figured it was over when Larry stepped back toward the truck. Figured it was time to head back inside, leave the kid his dignity.

 

But then Sal did something that stopped him cold.

 

He called out — barely audible from here — and Larry turned.

 

And Sal hugged him.

 

It was stiff, awkward, full of hesitation — but it was real. Arms wrapped tight. Head turned just enough to hide his face, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want something.

 

Larry stood frozen for half a beat, like maybe it short-circuited him. Then he let go of whatever held him back and hugged Sal right back — really hugged him. Like they weren’t on some cracked sidewalk with peeling paint and rusted stairs, but somewhere safe. Somewhere that made sense.

 

Henry didn’t look away.

 

He didn’t let himself feel much, most days — not where anyone could see. But this… this was different.

 

This wasn’t fear. Or grief. Or all the things that usually clung to Sal like a second skin.

 

This was good.

 

He exhaled, slow. Let the smoke drift into the thickening air.

 

 

The front door creaked a few minutes later.

 

Henry was already back inside, sitting at the kitchen table with his drink. Chamomile tea. Still warm. Not booze, for once. Not that he wasn’t tempted.

 

He glanced up as Sal walked in, shoulders hunched like a boy trying not to get noticed in his own damn home.

 

“You were out late,” Henry said, not accusing. Just a line thrown out to see if it caught anything.

 

Sal nodded, kicked off his shoes. “Yeah. Was at the rec center. Larry was there.”

 

Henry watched him. The way he tensed. Like he thought the name would trigger something.

 

“Really?” he said, slow.

 

“Yeah.”

 

A pause. Then: “Is he the one you were with just now?”

 

Sal blinked, startled. “You saw? Everything?”

 

Henry gave a low grunt. “Kinda hard to miss someone hugging my kid like that on the front steps.”

 

That did it. The color flushed up into Sal’s face, visible even under the cover of his mask. Like he hadn’t expected to be seen.

 

Henry didn’t press. Didn’t joke. Just took a sip and let it hang.

 

Then, softer than he meant to, he added, “He seems nice.”

 

Sal glanced up. Like he wasn’t sure if that was real. If it was a trick.

 

Henry didn’t explain himself. Just leaned back in the chair, loose.

 

“Didn’t think you were the hugging type.”

 

“I’m not,” Sal mumbled, already moving toward the hallway. “Guess that’s why it freaked me out.”

 

Henry chuckled. “Huh. Freaked him out too, probably.”

 

No reply — just a quiet snort that could’ve been amusement, could’ve been embarrassment. Then the soft click of Sal’s door shutting behind him.

 

Henry sat for a while, eyes on the empty mug.

 

He didn’t know much. Didn’t pretend to.

 

But he knew this much:

 

That kid — Larry — he was good for his boy.

 

And Sal, for all his ghosts, had finally let someone close enough to feel the warmth.

 

That was enough.

 

That was everything.

Notes:

Your comments make my day! Feel free to share your thoughts, ask questions, predictions and such. I love hearing yall's opinions!

Chapter 9: Revelation

Notes:

Hey everyone!
Sorry for the long wait — I was out of the country for a bit and couldn’t update, but I’m back now! I hope this chapter makes up for the break. Posting will return to the usual schedule from here on out — I’ve been itching to share more with you!

As always, feel free to leave your thoughts, questions, or anything else. I love hearing from you!

Enjoy the chapter! 💙

Sal didn’t know what woke him first — the knock on his door or the stupid grin on his face.

 

He blinked up at the ceiling, the morning light glowing soft through the curtains. His cheek was pressed into the cool side of the pillow, hair a complete mess across his forehead, but he barely noticed. That weightless, glowing feeling from the night before was still there, curling quietly in his chest.

 

Larry had hugged him.

 

Not as a joke. Not like the casual pats on the back that other people did. It had been quiet and real and warm — like Larry had meant it. Like maybe Sal hadn’t imagined everything building between them for the past while.

 

He could still feel it in his arms. In the slow way they’d pulled apart. In the way Larry had looked at him like—

 

Another knock. Louder this time.

 

“Sal,” came Henry’s voice through the door. “Your buddy called. Larry.”

 

Sal blinked and sat up, heart skipping. “Yeah?”

 

“I told him you were still asleep,” Henry said, pushing the door open with his elbow, already dressed for work. He held a mug of coffee and a phone notepad scrawled with something illegible. “He wanted me to ask if you wanna come by Todd’s. Said the 'gang' is meeting up this afternoon.”

 

Sal rubbed his eyes and nodded, still half-dazed with sleep and something sweeter. The beam on his face made him look like a stupid little girl who just got a brand new toy. “Yeah. Yeah, I wanna go.”

 

Henry gave him a long look, a pleased smile appearing on his face. “You look like you just won the lottery.”

 

Sal snorted, pulling his knees up to his chest under the covers. He was smiling. A blissful, genuine smile. "I didn’t.”

 

“Well.” Henry scratched his beard and turned back toward the hallway. “Eat something, alright? Don’t go showing up like a damn skeleton.”

 

Sal waited until the front door shut behind him and the apartment went still again before letting himself fall back onto the mattress with a soft exhale. The ceiling looked different today. The same cracks and old posters were there, but they didn’t press down on him like usual.

 

He lay there for a moment, heart full and dumb and buzzing.

 

Then he got up — his mask sat on the desk near his sketchbook, waiting. He touched it gently, fingers resting on the curve of the plastic. Not yet.

 

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and tied his hair back with a lazy flick of his wrist, glancing once in the mirror. His face — the real one — looked softer this morning. Less guarded. Like maybe he hadn’t spent most of his life trying to disappear.

 

The feeling was terrifying.

 

But also kind of… good.

 

Larry had called.

 

Sal paced around the small apartment, glancing at the old landline phone every few seconds like it might ring again. His fingers itched to call Larry back, but… well, that wasn’t really a thing people did. You waited. You didn’t want to seem too eager.

 

So instead, he wandered to the window and pushed the curtains aside just enough to let in the warm sunlight.

 

The street outside was quiet. A few cars idled at the corner, the hum of a lawnmower drifting lazily from somewhere down the block. A soft breeze stirred the leaves on the tree just outside his window.

 

Sal let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Last night still felt like a dream—Larry’s arms around him, the soft squeeze that said more than words ever could. That rare, unspoken promise of something maybe… real.

 

He smiled, biting his lip.

 

The thought bubbled up in his chest again, light and electric.

 

Not all bad. Not all pain.

 

For once, something good.

 

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice, trying to ignore the way his hands trembled just a little. The fridge was half-empty, but he found a couple of leftover bagels and slathered on peanut butter, eating slowly, savoring every bite.

 

He looked at the clock. Eleven fifteen.

 

Too early to meet the gang.

 

Too late to do much else.

 

Sal sat on the edge of his bed and flipped through his sketchbook, but his eyes kept drifting to the corner where his mask sat on the desk — the mask he usually wore like a shield.

 

Today, it just felt… there.

 

He didn’t need it yet.

 

Maybe today was different.

 

The phone rang suddenly, and Sal jumped, heart pounding. He raced to the phone to get there on time, before Larry hung up. He grabbed the receiver, breath catching. “Hello?”

 

A beat — then Larry’s voice, casual as ever, cut through the static. “Yo, Sunshine. You’re up.”

 

Sal leaned against the wall, tucking the cord around his finger like it didn’t mean anything. “Just woke up.”

 

“Damn. Henry said you were still out cold. I figured you’d be sleeping ‘til next week.” There was a teasing lilt in his voice, warm and familiar.

 

Sal smiled into the receiver. “I wasn’t that tired.”

 

“Oh yeah? Sounded like you had a hell of a night.” The pause was just long enough to mean something. Sal flushed. He was so glad Larry couldn’t see him.

 

“I was fine,” he muttered, too soft to sound convincing.

 

Larry let out a breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Well, in case you missed the message, we’re meeting up at Todd’s. Probably around two-ish. Neil’s bringing some weird board game, Ash is bringing snacks, and I’m bringing my sparkling personality.”

 

Sal smirked. “That last part’s a hoax.”

 

“Yeah, okay, maybe just my sketchbook. And some weed," Larry admitted. “But still. You coming?”

 

Sal hesitated for half a second, and then— “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

 

There was a beat of silence again. A warm one.

 

“Cool,” Larry said, and even through the crackling landline, Sal could hear the smile in it. “See you soon, dude.”

 

“See you,” Sal said — and when the line clicked dead, he just stood there for a second, holding the receiver like it was still Larry.

 

The room felt bigger, somehow. Lighter.

 

He placed the phone back on the hook and turned slowly toward the window. A car passed on the street. A bird flitted past. Nothing had changed, but he had. Something inside him had cracked open — just a little.

 

Today, he’ll see Larry again.

 

And not just that — he’ll be around other people. People who didn’t flinch at his mask. People who had become… friends.

 

Sal stood in front of the mirror again, mask still sitting untouched on the desk. His scarred, unusual, mutated face stared back at him. And it hit him that he hadn't seen his own face, not hidden behind a mask, raw, exposed, for so long. And this time, he wasn’t entirely disgusted by his face. He was actually… a little fond of it. Even though he couldn't stand looking at it.

 

He slipped his mask on, the straps falling into place like muscle memory. The cold plastic and padding were heavy and a little tighter than usual, making him hyper-aware of the ‘shield’ on his face. His shoulders tightened. Harsh. Automatic. Almost like a persona.

 

But he welcomed it. After all, he had no choice, did he?

 

 

The sky was wide and cloudless as Sal walked, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, the sun warming his back. His boots clicked quietly on the uneven sidewalk, scuffing against gravel and little bits of broken glass. Every so often, he glanced down at the crumpled note in his hand — a jaggedly ripped piece of paper with “Todd’s (I think?) 314 Suncrest Lane — green mailbox. Don’t trust any maps.” written in Larry’s terrible handwriting.

 

“Turn left at the brown dog,” Larry had said. “Well, it's not really a dog." He admitted. "it’s a bush. You’ll see it.”

 

Sal had not seen it.

 

It was a nice neighborhood. Quiet. The kind of place with trimmed hedges, wind chimes, and little welcome mats that actually meant it. Todd’s house looked small but clean — blue siding, some plants in pots by the front step, and a car in the driveway that probably belonged to one of his parents. Everything about it looked normal at first glance, if you didn’t count the faint smell of weed wafting from somewhere near the garage. Weird. Were Todd's parents smokers?

 

He paused at the edge of the driveway, heart ticking a little faster in his chest.

 

Sal shifted on his feet.

 

He adjusted the strap of his bag and looked down at himself — black jeans, band tee, sleeves pulled over his bracelets, mask secure. He felt like a weird shadow standing in front of this perfectly normal house.

 

What if this was the wrong place?

 

What if Todd’s parents opened the door and just stared at him?

 

What if the whole afternoon turned out awkward and silent and—

 

The front door opened before he could spiral further.

 

And there was Larry.

 

Barefoot, paint-smeared flannel tied around his waist, one hand holding the doorframe and the other gripping an orange lollipop.

 

“Hey,” the brunette said, a wide grin spreading over his face.

 

Sal blinked. He would be lying if he said that he wasn’t absolutely beaming under his mask. “That mailbox is a lie.”

 

Larry leaned against the doorframe, lollipop hanging from his mouth like a cigarette. “Told you the numbers were cursed.”

 

Sal wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, squinting up at him. “I walked past this house twice.”

 

Larry grinned. “Ash said you would. Neil bet on it.”

 

Sal raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

 

“Yup. I said you’d find it eventually, so I get partial credit.” Larry informed as he pulled the half-bitten lollipop out with a loud pop. “Also, you owe Neil two bucks.”

 

Sal rolled his eyes. “He can pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

 

Larry snorted and stepped aside to let him in, door creaking open behind him. “He said seeing your face again was enough. But like, in a creepy way. He’s been narrating everything in a Cryptkeeper voice since breakfast.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Something about ‘immersing himself.’ He brought this game called Doom Carnival.”

 

“That sounds fake.”

 

“Oh, it’s real. Ash already picked the haunted mime.”

 

Sal gave him a look. “Of course she did.”

 

They stepped into the cool hallway, the scent of cinnamon and old wood drifting up from the floorboards. Somewhere down the hall, Ash’s laugh rang out, followed by Todd’s slightly panicked voice.

 

The afternoon passed in a blur of laughter, ridiculous card rules, and Ash yelling “THIS IS A HATE CRIME” every time she lost a round.

 

At one point, Todd spent ten full minutes explaining the complex probability mechanics of a haunted carousel, only for Neil to play a card labeled “Clown Shoes of Destiny” and destroy them all. Larry nearly cried laughing.

 

Sal didn’t win a single round, but no one seemed to care. Not even him.

 

“Okay, but why would a mime have a knife?” he asked, staring at the card in his hand.

 

“Why wouldn’t a mime have a knife?” Ash shot back, already reaching for the pretzels. “That’s literally how mimes kill people. Silently.”

 

Larry leaned in, shoulder brushing Sal’s. “She’s been like this since middle school,” he murmured. His breath smelled like orange popsicle.

 

Sal turned his head, their faces suddenly close.

 

“Yeah?” he said, voice a little lower.

 

Larry smiled — soft, open, almost shy. “Yeah. It’s kinda awesome.”

 

They held each other’s gaze for a beat too long before Ash flung a popcorn kernel at Larry’s forehead and yelled, “Hey! Pay attention! I’m murdering a ghost clown.”

 

He groaned, tossing one back at her, but his hand brushed Sal’s knee under the table before he turned away. Not by accident.

 

Sal’s heart thumped, but not in a bad way. Not at all.

 

By the time they started packing up, his face hurt from smiling so much.

 

They were still lingering, none of them quite ready to call it a night, sprawled across couches and beanbags like lazy cats in the last light of the day.

 

Sal ended up on the floor again, back against the couch. Larry plopped down beside him with a thud, stretching his legs out and accidentally (definitely not accidentally) resting his socked foot against Sal’s. He didn’t move it. Sal didn’t either.

 

Ash was telling a dramatic story about the time she tried to summon a love demon in seventh grade. Larry kept making snide commentary under his breath, just loud enough for Sal to hear. Every time Sal laughed, Larry bumped his shoulder into him like it was a reward.

 

Then Ash declared, “I’m thirsty,” and left the room in a dramatic flourish, dragging Neil with her under the excuse that he was “tall and useful.” Todd followed, muttering something about double-checking the microwave after she’d made “that cursed hot chocolate.”

 

Just like that, it was quiet.

 

Sal blinked. It was suddenly just him and Larry, a hush settling over the room that felt different from the chaos before. Not awkward — but heavy in a good way. Soft around the edges.

 

Larry leaned his head back against the couch and turned to look at him.

 

“You had fun,” he said. Not a question. Just… sure.

 

Sal nodded. “I did.”

 

Larry smiled, a little lazy. “You should come around more. Y’know, when Ash isn’t committing snack-based hate crimes.”

 

Sal huffed a laugh, then hesitated. “You don’t think it’s weird? Me being here?”

 

“What?” Larry sat up a bit, frowning. “Why would I think that?”

 

Sal gave a helpless little shrug. “I dunno. I’m just… not really good at this stuff.”

 

Larry tilted his head. “You were good today.”

 

“That’s different. That was—” He waved vaguely. “Your friends. Your space.”

 

Larry’s voice went soft. “You’re allowed to be in it.”

 

Sal looked at him then, really looked, and Larry held his gaze with something bright and unguarded in his eyes.

 

“I like when you’re in it,” Larry added.

 

Sal’s breath caught.

 

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Larry reached out and very gently flicked a popcorn kernel from Sal’s hoodie pocket.

 

“Also, you’ve got, like, ten of these in your clothes. You look like a sad piñata.”

 

Sal snorted, startled, and Larry beamed like that had been the goal all along.

 

Still grinning, Larry plucked another piece from the fold of Sal’s sleeve and held it up like a prize. “You’re gonna leave a trail behind like Hansel and Gretel.”

 

“So what you’re saying,” Sal said, dryly, “is I’m delicious.” God. He wanted to bury himself alive. Why did he say that?

 

Larry blinked. Then his grin turned a little crooked, just on one side.

 

“I mean,” he said, voice low, “I wasn’t gonna say it.”

 

Sal went very, very still. Maybe this wasn’t so bad?

 

Their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, everything slowed down. The light from the kitchen cast a gold haze over the room. Larry's eyes were lighter now. Sal could feel every inch of the space between them — small, charged, waiting.

 

Then, mercifully or cruelly, Ash yelled from the other room, “WHO THE HELL PUT THE PRETZELS IN THE FREEZER?”

 

Larry broke first, laughing into his fist.

 

Sal’s smile lingered a little longer this time.

 

And his heart was still thumping — but in that way again. In that good way. In the way that made Sal flush.

 

By the time the games were packed up and everyone had migrated to the porch for goodbyes, the sky had turned navy. The porch light buzzed faintly above them, moths dancing in its glow. Neil offered everyone hugs, Ash demanded a rematch next weekend, and Todd reminded Sal to “stay hydrated and avoid cursed objects.”

 

“I’ll give you a ride,” Larry said casually, jingling his keys. “Unless you wanna hike home with a bag of popcorn in your pocket.”

 

Sal smirked and let out a small laugh. “Kinda my brand.”

 

“Too bad. Come on, freak.”

 

The drive was quiet in a comfortable way. Larry rolled the windows down, letting the warm night air pour in. A slow song played on the radio — something with fuzzy guitars and low vocals — and Sal let himself drift in it, a little stunned by how good the day had been. How easy.

 

“Hey,” Larry said, glancing over. “You hungry?”

 

“I mean… always.”

 

“There’s a 24/7 gas station up the road. I need sugar.”

 

Five minutes later, they were under flickering fluorescents, the air inside the store weirdly cold and smelling like floor cleaner and old coffee. Larry wandered down the candy aisle muttering something about gummy worms. Sal went straight for the chips and snagged a bag of Doritos — classic, no fuss. He made his way up to the register, tugging a small piece of his hair out of habit.

 

And then he saw him.

 

Behind the counter.

 

Rick.

 

Sal stopped in his tracks.

 

His stomach dropped through the floor.

 

He hadn’t changed much. The same tired slouch, the same thinning hair and lazy smirk. The name tag was crooked. His shirt was unbuttoned one too far. But it was the eyes that did it.

 

Because Rick looked up.

 

And recognized him.

 

Sal saw it in a flash — not surprise. Not confusion. Just a flicker of something smug behind those washed-out eyes. The kind of look a spider might give a fly already stuck in its web. There was a glint of nerves too, buried underneath — but Rick masked it with a slow, lazy smile.

 

“Hello.”

 

Sal didn’t say a word. His fingers clenched around the chip bag.

 

“Hey, they do have the good kind!” Larry appeared at his side, holding a bag of sour peach rings and a bottle of Sprite. “Told you this place was holy ground.”

 

Then he glanced at the counter. At Rick.

 

“Yo,” Larry said with a friendly grin, stepping up and dropping his snacks. “How’s it going, man?”

 

Rick didn’t take his eyes off Sal.

 

Sal didn’t move.

 

“Same old,” Rick said finally, voice low and casual.

 

Larry laughed. “That good, huh?”

 

Rick turned just slightly, but his gaze lingered one beat too long. Then he scanned the snacks slowly, like this was the most boring moment of his night.

 

“Twelve-seventy,” he said.

 

Larry dug out a crumpled bill. “I got it.”

 

Rick took the cash. Gave back the change. Didn’t look away.

 

Sal’s chest buzzed with something electric and awful. Not fear. Not just fear. Something uglier. Like being dragged under.

 

Rick didn’t say goodbye.

 

He didn’t have to.

 

“Let’s go,” Larry said, nudging Sal’s shoulder. “Before I buy more sugar and explode.”

 

Sal didn’t remember walking out. The door chimed behind them and shut the buzzing off like a switch.

 

Outside, it was quiet.

 

Too quiet.

 

Sal was silent. Completely, utterly silent. Even his breaths, which were shaky and uneven, were entirely inaudible. He might have been shaking. He might have been completely fine. Seconds felt like hours and nothing seemed real anymore.

 

Sal didn’t remember when they got into the car. He didn’t remember driving away. He didn’t remember anything. The only thing he could remember was Rick's smile.

 

Thin, crusty lips curling into a twisted smile, showing crooked, uneven yellow teeth.

 

The same smile that haunted him years ago and to this day.

 

The same bloody smile that made his skin crawl.

 

The car was cold. Too cold. But Sal didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. He sat in the passenger seat, his hands clutched into fists at his sides. He felt warm. Too warm. Not the good kind. The kind that made you feel like you were about to explode. He felt like a time ticking bomb that could go off any second. Unfixable. Unstoppable. The negative way.

 

After what felt like forever, the car stopped. Larry was mid-story about some obscure conversation he had with one of his guitar students. But he stopped. Silent.

 

He pulled over and turned to Sal.

 

“Sal?”

 

No response.

 

Larry leaned forward slightly. The engine ticked in the silence, cooling.

 

“Hey, man. You okay?”

 

Sal didn’t look at him. He was staring straight ahead, eyes glassy and distant. Like he wasn’t there. Like he’d left the moment Rick smiled and hadn’t come back.

 

Larry’s brow furrowed. “Was it the guy at the counter? Did he say something to you?”

 

Still nothing. But something flickered in Sal’s jaw — a twitch. A tremble.

 

Larry's voice softened. “You’re not breathing right, dude.”

 

That got a reaction — the tiniest inhale. Shallow. Shaky.

 

Larry reached over, slowly, and placed a hand over Sal’s clenched fist. He didn’t squeeze. Just left it there. Steady. Solid.

 

“I’m right here,” he assured Sal, his voice filled with concern. Real, raw concern. “Okay? You don’t have to talk. Just… look at me. If you can.”

 

Sal blinked. His throat moved like he wanted to speak — like something was rising up in him — but he couldn’t push it out yet.

 

“Sally?” Larry whispered, putting his hand on Sal's shoulder. That made Sal stop for a second. Only his mom called him that. Well, when she was still alive. And Rick.

 

Larry could feel the younger man shake. “Breath, dude. It's fine. I’m here.” He said, leaning closer. Sal could feel his body radiate warmth. Warmth that he needed.

 

Sal should’ve pulled away. Should’ve turned his face to the window, should’ve said I’m fine, should’ve swallowed it like always.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Instead, he leaned in — slowly at first, like gravity was pulling him. Then all at once.

 

His forehead pressed against Larry’s shoulder. His fists unclenched, only to twist into the fabric of Larry’s hoodie like he was trying to anchor himself to something real. His whole body trembled.

 

And then—

 

The first sob came out of nowhere. Raw. Shattering.

 

Larry froze for half a second, stunned — then moved without thinking. One arm wrapped around Sal’s back, the other curled around his shoulders. Tight. Protective. His cheek pressed against the side of Sal’s head.

 

“I got you,” he murmured. “I got you, Sally.”

 

Sal didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He was crying too hard — the kind of crying that sounded like it had been held in for years. Gasping, heaving, ugly sobs that cracked through the quiet car like thunder.

 

But Larry didn’t flinch. Didn’t loosen his grip.

 

He just held him.

 

Rocked him gently.

 

And whispered, again and again, “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

 

Sal didn’t lean so much as collapse — like something inside him just gave out. One second he was rigid, fists clenched, shoulders up to his ears, and the next, he was folded into Larry’s side, arms gripping the front of his hoodie like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

 

He was shaking. Not a little. Like earthquake-level shaking. And the sounds — choked, ragged, half-formed sobs — they weren’t loud, but they felt huge.

 

Larry froze for half a second, caught off guard. Then he wrapped his arms around him. Tight. Protective. No questions.

 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

 

Sal buried his face in Larry’s chest like he wanted to disappear there. His breath hitched again and again, gasping through clenched teeth like he was trying to stop himself from falling apart and couldn’t.

 

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time didn’t mean much.

 

Eventually, Sal’s sobs quieted. Not gone, but tired. Raw.

 

Larry leaned his cheek against Sal’s hair. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said softly. “But I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Sal didn’t move right away. But then — barely above a whisper — he said:

 

“I knew him.”

 

Larry blinked. His arms didn’t loosen, but his heart thudded. “The guy at the store?”

 

A small nod against his chest.

 

Larry hesitated. “Did he… do something? To you?”

 

Sal’s grip on him tightened. His breath hitched again — but he didn’t speak.

 

“Okay,” Larry murmured. He pressed his palm a little firmer against Sal’s back. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

 

Silence again. Then:

 

“He used to be around. When I was a kid.” Sal’s voice was quiet. Detached. “He smiled the same way back then, too.”

 

And that was it. No details. No names. Just that.

 

Larry swallowed hard. His jaw clenched — but he kept his voice soft. “Thank you for telling me, Sal."

 

Sal didn’t respond. He just stayed there, curled into him like the world was too sharp everywhere else.

 

Larry let the silence stretch, one hand gently brushing a loose strand of hair from Sal’s face.

 

“C’mon,” he said eventually, barely above a whisper. “Let’s get you home.”

 

But in his chest, the question sat heavy.

 

Who the fuck was that guy?

 

And what the hell had he done to Sal?

Notes:

Sorry for the angst bomb lol

Chapter 10: All The Things I Couldn’t Say

Notes:

Hi! Me again XD
decided to go a little heavy on Sal today, hope that's okay lol
Thank you for being here. Your support means much more than you know ♡
As always. Feel free to to leave your thoughts- I love hearing from you!
Enjoy the chapter !

There was a moment — just one — where Sal forgot everything.

 

The sun was coming in sideways through the blinds, striping his wall in pale gold. His blanket was kicked to the floor. His mouth was dry. For that moment, he was just tired.

 

Then it all came back.

The car. The store.

Rick.

That smile.

 

Sal sat up too fast. His stomach turned.

 

Rick is back.

He thought about telling his dad. Maybe talking to Dr. Enon about Rick again. Try to get over it. But that was all bullshit.

 

He could never get over it. It was too much.

 

His room looked the same — posters, laundry, the mask on the nightstand — but it all felt wrong. Too still. Too quiet. Like the air had thickened overnight.

 

A knock at the door.

 

He didn’t answer.

 

“Sal?” It was his dad. Henry sounded cautious. “You up?”

 

Sal rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. Voice rough. Useless.

 

There was a pause. Then:

“Larry called. Twice. Said he just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. He sounded confused. Very confused. And worried.

 

Another pause. “Did something happen, Sal? Did he do anything?"

 

Sal stared at the door. The quiet pressed in.

 

“No.”

 

Sal could literally hear Henry nod dishonestly behind the door.

 

Another pause. "Do you wanna talk to him? Or should I tell him you're asleep?"

 

“I’m good,” he said finally.

 

Henry didn’t argue. “Alright. Uh… breakfast’s out, if you want some.”

 

Footsteps faded. The front door opened and shut a few minutes later.

 

Sal sat there in the silence, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. He wasn’t good.

Not even close.

 

But right now, he didn’t know how to say that to anyone.

Not even Larry.

 

The house was dead quiet.

Sal sat on the edge of his bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes before collapsing last night. There was a dried tear track on his cheek, itchy and tight.

 

He stared at the floor for a long time. Long enough for the light in the room to shift.

 

Larry had called.

 

Of course he had.

 

Sal didn’t know what he wanted more — to see him, or to never see him again.

 

The thing that scared him the most?

The part that made his chest squeeze?

 

He wanted to see him. To hear Larry say something dumb. To sit in his room while he played guitar, or smoked out the window, or teased Sal about his mask. He wanted that safety again. That solid feeling. That warmth.

 

But Rick was here.

He was here.

 

And if he found out where Sal lived — if he figured it out — if he came to the house — if he did anything—

 

Sal stood suddenly. Too fast. The room swayed.

 

He walked to the door, paused, then doubled back and pulled the blanket from the floor, wrapping it around himself. He sat on the bed again. Curled in.

 

He wasn’t going outside today.

He didn’t feel real enough to go anywhere.

 

Larry's Pov:

“Have you thought about calling him?” a very worried, very confused Lisa questioned. The older woman was sitting on the sofa, her desperate son cross-legged on the floor in front of her. The two were both bothered, baffled, and utterly, completely concerned.

 

Larry scoffed. “Thought? I've called him three times. His dad answered me once, told me he was asleep. The other two calls went straight to voicemail.” He huffed, running his hands through his long hair.

 

Lisa sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what to tell you, Larbear. I really don’t,” she said.

 

"Maybe It's something you did?" She asked, furrowing her eyebrows, concern evident in her voice.

 

Larry looked up at her, eyes wide. “No! No, I mean—at least I hope not.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Something happened that night. He was fine, and then he just… wasn’t.”

 

Lisa frowned. “He seemed okay last I saw him.”

 

Larry nodded absently, picking at a string on the rug. “I don’t know, it’s like—I saw it in his face. It was like he disappeared right in front of me. Like something scared the hell out of him. I tried to ask, but he just shut down.”

 

Lisa didn’t say anything for a moment. She reached forward and ran a hand through her son’s hair gently, like she used to when he was little. “Maybe he’s not ready to talk about it.”

 

“I know,” Larry muttered. “I just hate not knowing. It makes me feel like I’m—useless.”

 

Lisa gave a small smile, though her eyes were tired. “You’re not useless, baby. You're just powerless. That’s a whole different thing.”

 

Larry stared at the floor, jaw tight.

 

Lisa stood with a soft grunt and kissed the top of his head. “Give him space. But don’t stop being there. That’s the part that matters.”

 

Then she padded toward the kitchen, leaving Larry with his thoughts.

 

Well, shit.

 

 

On the third morning, Larry sat on the curb outside the rec center, a sketchpad in his lap and a cold soda sweating in his hand. He hadn’t even tried to draw anything real—just lines. Angry, sharp ones. Crosshatches and spirals and nonsense. His leg bounced non-stop.

 

Ash dropped down beside him without a word, her sneakers scuffing the gravel.

 

He didn’t look at her. “Still nothing?”

 

“Yep,” she said. “Todd even checked his computer. Sal hasn’t logged into anything since Tuesday night.”

 

Larry closed his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I fucking knew something was wrong.”

 

Ash didn’t answer right away. She sat quietly, pulling at the fringe on her jeans.

 

“…Do you think he’s okay?” she asked finally.

 

Larry scoffed, hollow. “No. I think he’s falling apart.”

 

They sat in silence for a long time. The summer heat pressed in like a weight.

 

Ash turned to look at him. “Do you think it was you?”

 

“No.” Larry shook his head immediately. “But I think he wanted to tell me something. And he didn’t. And now he’s scared.”

 

“…Of what?”

 

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “But it’s not me. It’s something else.”

 

Ash leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky. “You think he’s ever gonna tell us?”

 

Larry didn’t answer. His pencil scratched across the paper again—lines, circles, spirals, meaningless mess.

 

“I think,” he said finally, “he wants to. I think he just doesn’t know how yet.”

 

Ash was quiet for a beat. Then, gently: “Do you miss him?”

 

Larry’s voice came out smaller than he meant it to. “Yeah.”

 

She nodded and bumped her shoulder against his. “Me too.”

 

 

Across town, Sal was still in the same T-shirt.

 

The same pair of jeans.

 

The room smelled stale. Like sweat and uneaten food. His blanket cocooned him on the floor now, a pile in the corner of his room by the desk, not even the bed anymore.

 

The sun came through the blinds again, the same way it had every morning since.

 

But this time, he didn’t watch it.

Didn’t even look.

 

He was holding his mask in both hands. Not wearing it. Not hiding. 

 

He was crying again, silent and tired. The kind of crying that didn’t shake your shoulders or make any sound—just endless tears, like a leak that wouldn’t stop.

 

His fingers were curled tight around the edge of the mask. Not hard enough to break it. Just hard enough to feel it dig into his palms.

 

He wanted to be nowhere.

 

But worse—he was nowhere.

He hadn’t spoken in two days. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t even left his room except to pee.

 

He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

Maybe for Rick to leave.

Maybe for himself to disappear.

 

Either way, he didn’t feel like a person right now.

 

He didn’t feel like anyone. He felt like a ghost, haunting himself. The sky didn’t make sense anymore.

 

And then came the night.

 

The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock on the wall.

 

Sal sat on the edge of his bed, the mask lying face down beside him. His hands trembled, and his chest felt like it was being squeezed tight.

 

He heard the soft creak of the floor as Henry appeared in the doorway, hesitant.

 

“Sal?” His voice was low, cautious.

 

Sal didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled his knees up and hugged them close.

 

Henry stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.

 

“I heard you up,” Henry said, sitting down on the edge of Sal’s bed a careful distance away.

 

Sal finally looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, fierce, tired. He looked afraid. He looked devastated.

 

“Yeah.” Sal croaked. His voice was uneven, hoarse from lack of use in the past days. He looked down again.

 

Henry looked at his son — really looked at him. And in that moment, it hit him: this was still his little boy.

Even if he barely recognized the young man sitting across from him, this was still the child who used to beg him to play catch in the yard, who laughed at his awful jokes like they were the funniest thing in the world.

 

His little boy, who had once loved him with his whole heart.

Now he was older. Scarred. He hardly ever showed his face anymore. His hair was dyed blue. He stood a little taller.

But none of that mattered.

He was still his son. Still his.

 

And he didn’t deserve him. Not one bit.

 

“What happened, Sal?”

 

Sal stared at his father, eyes glassy, unreadable. For a second, Henry thought he wasn’t going to answer. That maybe he couldn’t.

 

But then—quietly, slowly—Sal whispered,

 

“He’s here.”

 

Henry blinked. “Who?”

 

Sal’s voice cracked. “Rick.”

 

It was the first time he’d said the name out loud in years. It landed like a stone in the room, heavy and cold.

 

Henry’s breath caught. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just stared.

 

Sal kept talking, voice hollow. “I saw him. At the store. He fucking talked to me. Said ‘Hello’ like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t—” His throat closed up, and he shook his head, curling in tighter.

 

Henry's face went pale. He looked like someone had punched the air out of him. “Jesus Christ…”

 

“I didn’t know what to do.” Sal wiped his sleeve across his face. “I just left. Larry was with me, and I—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe, Dad.”

 

Henry swallowed hard, guilt carving deep into every line on his face. “You should’ve told me.”

 

Sal went quiet. “Told you what?” he asked, his voice harsh and demanding.

 

Henry went quiet. He looked down at his lap.

 

“What would you have done?” Sal snapped, suddenly sharp. “Huh? Called the cops? What would I even say? ‘Hey, remember that guy who raped me five years ago? He’s in town now?’”

 

Henry flinched like he'd been slapped.

 

Sal saw it and looked away, ashamed. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

“No,” Henry said quietly, shaking his head. “You’re right. You’re right, Sal.” He raked a hand through his thinning hair. “God, I should’ve protected you. I should have. You were just a kid.”

 

Sal gritted his teeth. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers white-knuckled around each other.

“You knew?” The boy hissed, the words shaking in his chest. Not loud, but furious.

 

Henry looked up sharply, color draining from his face. “What? No—I…” He trailed off, like the words caught in his throat.

 

Sal leaned forward, eyes boring into him. “You brought him around all the time. You left me alone with him. And you never noticed anything?” His voice cracked again, this time sharper. “You were passed out on the fucking couch half the time. You don’t remember what it was like back then?”

 

Henry’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

 

Sal laughed, bitter. “No. You do remember. You just didn’t care.”

 

“I didn’t know,” Henry said again, quieter this time, like if he said it soft enough it would undo something. “I swear, Sal. I didn’t know what he was doing. If I had—if I’d known—”

“You didn’t want to know.” Sal's voice cut clean through the room like glass. “Because then you’d have to admit what kind of people you let into our house. What kind of father you were.”

 

Henry looked like he’d been gut-punched. He closed his eyes. “Jesus, kid. I didn’t know. I didn’t... I was drunk all the time, I know. I was a mess. But if I had any idea—”

“But you didn’t ask. You never asked.” Sal’s voice was trembling now, but the fury in it hadn’t gone anywhere. “You never even fucking looked at me.”

 

“But I see you now,” Henry said, broken. “I see you, Sal. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard—”

 

“Well, it’s too fucking late,” Sal snapped—and then just as quickly, the fight drained out of him. He pulled his knees back to his chest, turned his face away. “It’s already done.”

 

The silence that followed was cavernous.

 

Then:

 

“I’m sorry, Sal.” Henry said after a while, his voice trembling.

 

“I know,” Sal cut in. His voice was so small. Much smaller than before. “I know, Dad.”

 

Henry sat with it. With him.

With the weight of everything neither of them had said for years.

Then, gently—carefully—like the words might break something if they came out too loud:

“Does Larry know?”

 

Sal didn’t answer right away. He wiped at his face again, even though the tears had stopped. Just a twitchy, nervous motion. His throat bobbed.

 

“…No.”

His voice was barely there.

 

Henry nodded, slow. Thoughtful. He didn’t push.

 

Sal’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor. “I wanted to tell him. That night. I almost did.” He let out a shaky breath. “But I saw his face. When I started crying... He looked so confused. And then I panicked. I just—I shut down.”

 

Henry rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Would it help if I talked to him?”

 

Sal looked up sharply. “No. No, I mean… no. Not yet.”

He shook his head. “I have to do it. If I ever… I have to do it myself.”

 

“Okay,” Henry said. No resistance, no pressure. Just there. “Okay.”

 

They sat in silence again. Not as sharp this time. Less like broken glass, more like quiet snow.

 

After a while, Sal muttered, “He keeps calling.”

 

“I know,” Henry said. “I’ve been answering. Didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

 

Sal’s jaw clenched. “I know he’s worried. I just don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

 

“You don’t have to know yet,” Henry told him. “You just have to keep breathing, alright? That’s it for now.”

 

Sal nodded, slow. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either.

 

Henry stood, joints creaking. He hesitated at the door. “Do you want me to stay? I can. Just sit with you.”

 

Sal looked up. Thought about it.

 

Then, quietly: “Yeah. That’d be okay.”

 

Henry came back and sat down again, this time closer.

 

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask anything.

He just stayed.

 

And Sal let him.

 

 

Larry's POV:

The cicadas were screaming again.

 

That high, shrill drone filled the night like static—louder the longer he listened, like the world itself was short-circuiting.

 

Larry sat hunched in the open window, shirtless, knees pulled up to his chest. Smoke curled around his fingers, slow and lazy, but his mind wouldn’t follow the same pace. He was too far gone. Weed layered on top of cheap vodka layered on top of God, I hope he’s okay.

 

The joint had burned down to the filter between his fingers. He didn’t even notice until it singed the pad of his thumb.

 

“Shit—”

 

He flicked it into the ashtray, already overflowing. Half a cigarette here, a roach there. Matchbooks torn to confetti. A graveyard of bad coping mechanisms.

 

The air was thick and wet, pressing against his skin like a second layer. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked. Somewhere closer, a car rumbled past and faded.

 

And through it all: the buzzing. The fucking cicadas.

 

Larry stared at the telephone on the floor beside him.

 

The same old landline his mom refused to replace. Faded plastic, tangly cord, the kind of thing that always looked like it belonged in a hospital or a horror movie.

 

He’d called Sal three times today.

 

Once after he got back from the rec center. Once after the silence became too loud. And once just to hear something, even if it was Sal’s dad telling him to stop calling for the fifth time in the past few days.

 

He reached for it again now, fingers brushing the receiver.

 

Maybe this time.

 

Maybe Sal had calmed down. Maybe he was sitting there just like this, staring at his own ceiling, wishing someone would reach out first.

 

Maybe he’d pick up. Just say “Hey.”

 

Maybe.

 

But Larry didn’t lift it.

 

What was he even gonna say?

 

Hey, sorry you had a breakdown in front of me. Sorry I didn’t do more. Sorry I let you leave. Sorry was a fucking moron and didn't know what to do.

 

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead.

 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Sal, come on, man…”

 

His voice cracked. Too raw. Too close.

 

He looked down at his lap. His hands were shaking.

 

He lit another joint with hands that didn’t want to listen, flicked the lighter three times before it caught.

 

The cicadas kept going. Relentless. Like they didn’t care if the world ended tonight.

 

Larry took a long, dragging hit and blew it out the window, eyes glassy.

 

He didn’t want to sleep. Couldn’t. Not while things were still like this.

 

Not while Sal was out there somewhere, hurting like that. Hiding it again.

 

And all Larry could do was sit in his room, high off his ass, listening to bugs scream at the sky.

 

 

 

Sal couldn't sleep.

 

Eventually, he gave up. He pushed the blanket off, dragging his hoodie on. He padded down the hallway, trying not to make the floorboards creak. Just something warm, he told himself. Hot cocoa. Something to keep his hands busy.

 

When he flicked the kitchen light on, something caught his eye — a soft, flickering glow bleeding through the front blinds.

 

He froze.

 

The porch light wasn’t on. But there was definitely light. Movement.

 

He stepped to the window and peeked through the curtain.

 

Someone was sitting outside, on the low brick wall near the apartment entrance. Legs stretched out. Hoodie pulled up. A slow, lazy curl of smoke drifted through the air.

 

Sal’s heart jolted.

Larry.

 

Just… there. Sitting outside like a stray cat. Like he’d been waiting all along.

 

Sal didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed his keys, pulled on his shoes, and slipped out into the warm, damp air of the night. The building was quiet — no cars, no sounds from the other units. Just the hum of the parking lot light buzzing overhead and the soft rasp of cicadas in the trees.

 

The door clicked shut behind him, and Larry looked up, startled—but when he saw who it was, his face softened instantly.

 

“Jesus,” Larry breathed. He let out a laugh that sounded more like a breath he’d been holding for hours. “You scared the shit outta me.”

 

Sal didn’t answer. He just walked over and sat beside him on the edge of the wall. His eyes looked tired, but less sunken. Less lost.

 

He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at the dark street beyond the lot. And Larry just stared at him, overwhelmed.

 

He hadn't known what to expect coming here—maybe silence. Maybe nothing at all. But Sal was here. Sitting next to him. That was more than enough.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Larry said eventually. His voice caught a little. “I’ve been losing my fucking mind, man.”

 

Sal didn’t look at him, but his shoulders tensed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Larry said quickly. “I just—I didn’t know what happened. One minute we’re in the car, and then—” He stopped. “You looked like you couldn’t breathe.”

 

Sal stared out at the dark road. The cicadas were still going. They never seemed to stop.

 

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I really couldn’t.”

 

He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking a lot smaller than he normally did.

“I didn’t mean to freak out. I wasn’t mad at you. It wasn’t you.” He paused. “I just… I saw someone. Earlier. And everything got fucked in my head.”

 

Larry’s face fell, a frown knitting between his brows. “Who?”

 

Sal shook his head. “I’ll tell you. I just need a second.”

 

Larry nodded. He could wait. Hell, he’d wait all night.

 

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said. “But I’m here.”

 

Sal looked at him then, and Larry swore his heart cracked open right there—because for the first time in days, Sal wasn’t closing himself off. He looked tired and raw, but he wasn’t hiding.

 

And that was enough.

 

Sal swallowed, jaw tight. He pulled his sleeves over his hands like he used to do in middle school—like he was bracing for something, cold or cruel.

 

“His name’s Rick,” he said.

 

Larry blinked. “Okay…”

 

Sal nodded once, eyes fixed on the porch floorboards. “He was a friend of my dad’s. Back in Jersey. He used to come by a lot when I was a kid.”

 

There was something wrong in his voice—something too flat, too rehearsed.

 

“I thought he was cool, at first,” Sal continued. “He’d sneak me candy. Let me stay up late. My dad was usually passed out by then.”

 

Larry’s stomach started to knot. He didn’t say anything.

 

Sal’s fingers dug into the sleeves of his hoodie.

 

“And then one night he didn’t leave.”

 

He paused. His breathing was shallow now.

 

“He waited until my dad passed out. I—I didn’t understand what was happening, not at first. Just that he was touching me and I didn’t want him to. And it didn’t stop. It never stopped. He did things I can’t even say out loud. He was fucking cruel,” Sal said, his voice cracking as he let a small sob escape him.

 

Larry felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

 

Sal still wouldn’t look at him. “I didn’t tell anyone. What was the point? My dad didn’t give a shit back then, and I didn’t think anyone else would believe me. I just buried it. I buried it so deep I forgot how to breathe around it.”

 

There was a long silence. Only the hum of cicadas.

 

“And then I saw him,” Sal whispered. “At the grocery store. Here. Like he just… fucking followed me through time. Like he never left.”

 

Larry’s throat was dry. “He’s in Nockfell?”

 

“Yeah.” Sal’s voice cracked. “He said fucking hi like it was nothing. Like I was just some kid he used to know. Like he didn’t fucking ruin me.” The bluenette whimpered, somehow becoming even smaller.

 

The last word came out harsher than he meant, and he flinched at the sound of it. His hands were shaking. Heavy, wet tears were streaming down his face. The mask was sticky now.

 

“I’m broken. He broke me. I will never recover from this. He ruined me. I’m a ruined person. He did things—” Sal paused as he let another louder, bigger sob escape his mouth. “F-filthy things. He made my life a living hell.”

 

Larry’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

 

And then he said—quietly, steadily: “Sal.”

 

Sal still didn’t look at him.

 

Larry crushed the joint out on the porch railing and reached over, placing his hand over Sal’s. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

 

“I didn’t want you to look at me different,” Sal mumbled. “You’re the only person who doesn’t.”

 

Larry’s grip tightened. “I don’t. I won’t. I swear to God, Sal.”

 

And for the first time, Sal finally turned to face him. His eyes were glassy, but clear.

 

“I believe you,” Larry said. “I believe you, and I’ve got you.”

 

Sal nodded. He looked up at Larry, his eyes displaying the grief he felt in that moment. And Larry’s heart broke. The smaller man scooted closer to the latter, and slowly, cautiously, carefully laid his head on his friend’s shoulder. He let himself sink into the feeling—the feeling of Larry’s flannel shirt, of his silky, slightly knotted hair. Of his hand, wrapping itself around him, as if it was shielding Sal from all danger.

 

Larry let out a small sigh. “How long did it go on for, Sally?” Larry asked. There it was again—that nickname. Sal felt a small shudder run down his back from the question. He pressed himself closer to Larry.

 

Sal took a deep, uneven breath. “A year and a bit, I think. Maybe a year and a half.”

 

Larry shut his eyes for a second and nodded, slightly squeezing Sal. He wanted to kill that man. “Fuck.” He hissed through his teeth.

 

There was a moment of silence between them. Larry could feel Sal. And all he could feel was a broken, shivering, perfect mess.

 

Larry’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “That bastard’s gonna pay, Sal. No matter what. I swear.” His voice was low, fierce—a promise and a threat tangled together.

 

He wanted to say so much more. That he cared about Sal in ways that scared him. That he’d been holding back feelings he couldn’t fully understand or name. But words like that were heavy. Hard to say, especially when everything felt so fragile.

 

Sal’s breath hitched. His hands trembled, clutching Larry’s like a lifeline. The fear was still there—raw and biting—and it settled over them both like a shadow.

 

“I’m scared, Larry,” Sal whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t want him to find me. I don’t want to see him. What if he comes back? What if he...” Sal trailed off, letting out a soft whimper.

 

Larry pulled Sal closer, wrapping his arms around him like a shield. “Hey, you’re not alone,” he said, voice thick but steady. “I’m here. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you again. Not on my watch.”

 

Sal leaned into Larry’s chest, eyes closing for a moment, breathing shaky but a little steadier.

 

Larry wanted to promise he could fix everything. But he knew some scars ran deep, and some fears didn’t just disappear.

 

Still, he could be the one constant—the one safe place—for Sal to hold onto when the dark got too loud.

 

And even if he wouldn’t admit it yet, that meant everything.

 

He cared more than he ever thought possible. And he wasn’t going anywhere. Not if he could help it.

 

Sal looked up at Larry, his breath fogging slightly in the warm night air. He still hadn’t let go of Larry’s sleeve. His fingers gripped the worn flannel like it grounded him.

 

“Lar?” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

 

Larry tilted his head, eyes searching his. “Yeah?”

 

Sal looked away. His throat bobbed. “Would you…” He stopped, shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “Could you—do you wanna maybe… stay? Just for the night. Or for a while. I just—I don’t really wanna be alone right now. And, um." He stopped and looked down. "I want you. Here, I mean.” He stuttered.

 

It came out fast and awkward, and Sal flushed. He looked down, half-expecting Larry to laugh or say it was too late or weird or—

 

But Larry didn’t laugh.

 

His face softened immediately, something warm and unspoken in his expression. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I will.”

 

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” Sal added quickly, still not quite meeting his eye. “I mean. If you’re okay with the bed. I don’t take up that much space.”

 

Larry’s heart tugged at the way he said it — all quiet and embarrassed, like it was asking too much.

 

“I’ll take whatever space you give me, Sal,” he said gently. “You sure it’s okay?”

 

Sal nodded. His fingers still hadn’t let go. “I just… I feel better when you’re around.”

 

That was enough for Larry.

 

He stood, flicking the burnt-out joint away into the empty curb, and followed Sal up the cracked walkway toward the front entrance. The building loomed quiet and still. The door creaked open with a soft push, and they moved together through the cool, dim hallway.

 

Neither of them spoke as they climbed the stairs. Second floor. Familiar steps. Sal’s hands were shaking a little as he unlocked the door, but he didn’t stop. He stepped inside first, leaving it open just long enough for Larry to follow.

 

Everything inside was hushed. Sal didn’t bother with the lights. Just the faint glow from the street outside filtered in through the blinds, softening the sharp corners of the room.

 

He kicked off his shoes, tugged his sleeves down past his hands again. “You can grab a blanket from the couch, if you want,” he murmured, voice thin. “Or just come in. Whatever’s better.”

 

Larry didn’t grab a blanket.

He just followed Sal quietly down the hall, past the cracked bathroom door and into the bedroom.

 

Sal flicked off the lamp on his desk and climbed into bed first, making space, barely daring to breathe.

 

Larry laid down beside him — close, but not quite touching. Not until Sal shifted, hesitant, and let his hand drift to rest near Larry’s on the blanket.

 

It was small.

 

But it was everything.

 

Larry didn’t speak — just turned his hand over, let Sal’s fingers curl into his. And when Sal finally closed his eyes, heart still thudding in his chest, it was to the steady rhythm of Larry’s breathing beside him.

 

He wasn’t alone.

 

Not tonight.

 

Chapter 11: Sunburnt

Notes:

Hi! it's me. sorry for the wait..
I got a little burnt out and some stuff happened, but I pinky promise I will be back to uploading regularly! I'm trying to balance writing with work and school and a lot of other stuff, but I'm already in the midst of writing the next chapter (Which I promise you guys will 100% love!), so it won't take nearly as long this time!
I can't wait to share the next chapters with you! I'm really loving the way this is turning out.
Enjoy reading!!

Sal moved slowly, deliberately, like getting out of bed was some kind of heist. The room was dim, washed in that pale, early gray that made everything look a little quieter than it was. His shirt clung to him, a little damp from sleeping, and the elastic of his mask tugged at his ears, stiff and uncomfortable.

Still, he didn’t take it off.

He reached for his hoodie, silently as he could. One leg already over the edge of the mattress.

 

Then:

A warm hand curled around his wrist.

 

Sal froze.

 

“Where you goin’, Spooky?” Larry’s voice was hoarse — low and lazy, frayed at the edges with sleep. Sal could practically feel it down his spine.

“I wasn’t—” He glanced over his shoulder.

Larry was barely awake. His eyes were still closed. His mouth was tugged into the ghost of a grin, and his hair stuck up in every direction. The blanket was kicked down to his hips, exposing the line of his stomach, the sharp ridge of his hipbone. He looked annoyingly good like that — soft and half-dreaming and still holding onto Sal’s arm like he needed it to keep sleeping.

 

“I was just gonna go pee,” Sal muttered.

 

“Mmm. No you weren’t.” Larry tugged gently, not hard — just enough to unbalance him. “Come back here. S’too early.”

 

“I’m not tired.”

“Don’t care.” He cracked one eye open, the smirk deepening. “You’re warm.”

Sal sighed. But he let himself be pulled back, slowly, awkwardly, until his head hit the pillow again. Larry’s arm found his side without effort — loose around his ribs, then a sleepy hand creeping under Sal’s shirt to press against his stomach. He froze, but not in a bad way. It didn't feel forced. And he forgot how hot and wrong the mask felt against his skin. Forgot that he hadn’t brushed his teeth or said anything clever or done anything to deserve this. Just lay there, still and tense, like he might break something if he breathed too hard. But Larry didn’t seem to notice.

 

“R’you always this twitchy in the morning?” he asked, voice nearly a whisper.

 

“R’you always this handsy?”

 

Larry huffed a soft laugh into Sal’s shoulder. “Only when I like someone.”

 

That shut him up.

The silence stretched. Warm and weird and not unpleasant.

Larry’s thumb moved in slow circles over Sal’s stomach, under the fabric. Half-asleep, half-there. No pressure. No questions. And Sal let his eyes close and shuffled closer to Larry. This time, he didn't feel like running. He felt like hugging and talking and laughing and opening up all at the same time. It was alien, but it was familiar all the same.

As foreign as it was, that feeling managed to carry out for weeks. Sal no longer felt like an outsider in his own skin. But that didn’t mean he forgot about Rick.

 

Yes, he haunted Sal. He showed up in his nightmares. Flashbacks. In the smallest things that reminded him of all Rick’s done. Turns out, forgetting wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. At least not when Rick lived in the same town as him.

 

Sometimes it was just the sound of boots on pavement, too heavy and too close. Or the way a stranger’s laugh in the grocery store would scrape against his memory, dragging him backward. Sal kept telling himself it was just in his head, that Rick wasn’t anywhere near him in those moments. But the thought never really went away. He was too on edge. Too anxious. Too afraid.

 

So when Sal saw him again - it wasn't a shock. Not really.

 

They’d gone to the cinema that night, the whole group crammed into the lobby’s line for popcorn. Ash was arguing with Todd about which snacks were objectively the best (she claimed Milk Duds, Todd looked physically pained by the opinion). Larry was standing behind Sal, close enough that his arm brushed Sal’s every time the line shuffled forward.

That’s when Sal saw him.

Rick.

Leaning against one of the soda machines, talking to some guy Sal didn’t recognize. He wasn’t even looking their way, but it didn’t matter. Sal’s stomach dropped. The sounds around him dulled, like the air had thickened.

 

The bands holding his mask to his face suddenly felt too tight, biting into his ears. His hands clenched in his hoodie pocket before he even realized it.

Larry noticed.

“Hey,” he said, low enough that it was meant just for him. Sal didn’t answer, eyes locked on the floor.

“What’s up?” Larry tried again, leaning forward slightly so his words brushed the side of Sal’s hair.

Sal shook his head once. “He’s here,” he muttered, voice thin.

 

It took Larry all of two seconds to clock what that meant. He didn’t turn his head to look, didn’t draw attention—just shifted forward so he was standing in front of Sal now, big enough to block the line of sight. “Alright,” Larry said, like it was already handled.

Sal could still feel the edges of panic pressing in, the hum in his ribs that told him to get out, get away. But then Larry’s hand brushed his, casual but deliberate, and stayed there—fingers curling just enough to anchor him.

 

“You good to stay?” Larry asked. No pressure, no pity.

Sal took a breath. The movie was starting soon. Rick was still talking to his friend, not even looking. And Larry was right there, close enough that Sal could feel the heat of him.

“Yeah,” Sal said finally. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

Larry smirked faintly, like he didn’t quite believe him, but didn’t call him out on it. “Good. Cause I already bought the tickets, Sally. And I’m not watchin’ this one without you.”

 

The movie was good. It was an average movie about a guy, a chainsaw, and some victims. Nothing out of the ordinary, but still good nonetheless. And of course, it made Larry squirm in his seat, even though it had very minimal, very not scary effects. And it helped Sal forget. For a moment.

But once the end of the movie came, so did the slight tightness in his chest and the people crowding the theater and filing towards the exit.

 

Sal scanned the crowd without meaning to—eyes sweeping the lobby, catching flashes of jackets and unfamiliar faces. His pulse ticked higher for a second, waiting for the inevitable.

Rick wasn’t there.

The breath he didn’t know he was holding slipped out, quiet and shaky. His shoulders dropped a little, and he told himself it was just because the movie had been long and the seats were uncomfortable.

Larry noticed anyway. “See? Survived the scary flick,” he said, nudging Sal with his elbow. “Didn’t even scream once. Proud of you." The taller man teased.

“I don’t scream,” Sal said, voice dry, but softer than usual.

 “Uh-huh. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

 

Sal let out a small chuckle. "No, I really don't. Don't try to turn this on me, Johnson. You’re the one who almost got a panic attack back there." He clapped back, smiling behind his mask. And for that, he earned a small punch to his shoulder and a small mutter of playful derogatory terms.

 

Ash was already dragging Todd toward the arcade machines in the corner, muttering something about a rematch. Sal followed, not really caring about the games, but grateful for the noise, the lights, the way Larry kept brushing against him like it was just a casual coincidence.

It was easier to laugh when He wasn't face-to-face with his traumas. Easier to breathe. Easier to believe that everything was normal.

"I'm craving... something. I think I want Pepsi." Larry babbled, his arm using Sal's shoulder as a shelf.

"But you hate Pepsi?" Sal stared. The last time he had seen Larry with a Pepsi was when he got blackout drunk and decided to empty Ash's fridge. He drank a Pepsi with vodka and threw up on her wooden floor.

 

"Yeah, but I can make exceptions." He said, rubbing his stomach. "Y'know what, scratch that, I want a Sprite. A 'real big, cold Sprite."

And that set them off. The next hour consisted of Ash and Larry binge singing (or screaming) Mariah Carey's entire discography while on the way to the nearest 7/11, a very loud, very broken AC, one tired Todd, and a happy Sal that decided to start a conversation about polar bears and their natural habitats.

Once they all got their sodas and a very big bag of unnecessary spicy doritos that Ash absolutely insisted they'd get, the gang took off. And by the time they got to Ash's house, the sky was a deep indigo shade and the street lamps shone down brightly on the floor of the dark streets, illuminating the neighborhood in a way that made it seem almost magical.

Ash’s porch light flicked on before they even made it up the steps, flooding the little stoop in a pale-yellow glow. She unlocked the door with a theatrical flourish, like she was revealing some grand surprise, then stepped aside to let everyone in.

That night was nice. Comforting. A rare moment shared between a group of really, really dumb people in an excellent position. Sal didn’t know when he got to Larry’s house, or why, but somehow, he found himself once again sitting on Larry’s twin bed, watching an old 50s romance movie on his beat-up TV and sharing a bowl of slightly burnt jelly pop-tarts, leaning on each other like losers and sitting too close again.

The noise of Larry’s ancient ceiling fan overtook the room, filling it with constant buzzing that otherwise would have agitated Sal, but now felt familiar and comfortable. And they sat there, marinating in the sound of their dual breathing and the heat radiating off their bodies. The movie was boring, but it was one of Larry’s favorites, so Sal decided to suck it up and sit there and watch Larry smile and somehow manage to quote and fully enact truly cringe dialogues.

 

“And for you, my love, I will set the sea ablaze. I will tear up the skies and climb up to the highest of mountains to say, to scream into the clouds, that you, Jessica, are my one and only. I would rather die, suffer great, agonizing pain, than watch you leave this room. Leave me,” The TV echoed. The man’s voice was rushed. Trembling. Maybe with fear. Maybe with sadness. Or love.

And Sal watched as Larry mumbled along, eyes fully focused on the small screen in front of him as he chewed on his nails. The blue light from the television cast a harsh glow on his face that somehow made him look even more angelic. He was truly like something that came out of a fairy tale.

 

His hair was silky and messy, falling over his face and creating some kind of frame around his face that made him look like a God. His brown eyes clashed with the blue shine of the screen, making them appear glossy and tempting. Sal found himself staring longer than he meant to, forgetting the movie entirely. He was entirely captivated by the divine being of Larry Johnson.

 

“Oh, John... my sweet John...”

“Anywhere you may be, anywhere you may go – I will stand there, by your side. I would never dare to abolish what we have, what we have built,”

Larry mumbled to himself, speaking alongside the actors. And Sal found his eyes trailing to Larry’s moving lips more than once. Wondering what it would feel like to kiss them. To feel Larry’s lips moving swiftly against his own, dancing a dangerous dance. For them both.

Larry’s voice was low and rough, but it carried an almost theatrical devotion that made the words sound like they belonged to him and not the actors on screen. Sal’s chest ached with something warm and terrifying all at once, a pull he didn’t know how to name. He shifted in his seat, trying not to be obvious, but his eyes betrayed him every time. Back to Larry’s lips. Back to the curve of his jaw lit in blue. Back to the boy who didn’t even know he was turning Sal’s world inside out.

 

“That’s beautiful,” Sal said, letting the words slip out of his mouth. His voice was breathy and soft and dreamy and that made Larry’s chest ache in a way that was risky for them both.

“Huh?” The brunette turned to look at him, snapping out of his haze before looking down at his lap and letting out a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “The movie?”

“No.”

Larry looked up at Sal again, and Sal could swear that he was blushing. “Oh. that” he smiled bashfully. “That’s just an old habit. I do it almost every time I watch one of my favorites,” he explained, stretching. The tension in the room was fucking electrifying.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it,” Sal assured, tilting his head. It was almost as if he were scanning Larry’s face. Searching for emotions. For thoughts, for anything that could give him a clue as to what the fuck he was feeling.

Larry let out a shy laugh, looking down at his lap again. “I’m not used to this, y’know?” he remarked before looking up at Sal again, eyes piercing through him with a look neither of them could name.

 

“Well, you'd better get used to this, because I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. You’re kind of stuck with me now.”

Larry’s smile got a little wider at that. He looked at Sal for a moment before speaking-

“You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me, do you?”

Sal’s face got a little red at that. Maybe more than just a little. But luckily, Larry couldn’t see that.

Normally, Sal would have been happy at that. Most of the time, his mask served as a shield. But this time… this time was different. much different.

He found himself wishing that he wasn’t wearing the mask right now. He wanted Larry to see that yes, he was feeling this too. and maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky enough, be able to score a kiss from him. But nobody in their right mind would want to kiss Freddy Krueger.

And throughout the night, they just kept getting closer and closer. Sitting too close. Whispering in each other’s ears. Giggling about dumb, pointless inside jokes they've managed to collect over the past few months. They were inseparable. unbearable. Soon enough, Sal found himself lying on Larry’s bed, hair spread around himself like a crooked, makeshift halo. Larry was in the bathroom, presumably getting ready to go to sleep.

But Sal wasn’t at ease. Not at all. Yesterday, it was fine. Sleeping in his mask just for one night was fine. It wasn’t exactly comfortable or hygienic, but it wasn’t the worst. Sleeping in that mask for two whole days? He needed to clean it, to clean his face, and to breathe some fresh fucking air. He needed it off ASAP.

But Larry couldn’t see his real face. He would probably freak. Sal was hideous. Larry would probably take one look and run in the other direction.

 

Oh, well.                                                                                                                                       

Sal took in a sharp, deep breath and opened his mouth. “Larry?” He called from the bed, realizing he probably couldn’t hear him from there. He got up and opened the door, heading towards the bathroom where Larry now resided. 

He was about to knock on the bathroom door before it opened, almost hitting him in the face. Sal’s eyes widened. Larry stood there, a surprised and puzzled expression on his face. “Were you listening to me pee?” he asked, only half joking.

Sal let out a small huff of amusement and shame and embarrassment all at the same time. “No!” he defended weakly, his face going slightly red again. It really did look like he was eavesdropping. The boy shifted from one foot to the other, his fingers twitching against the hem of his shirt, then unconsciously rising to brush over the straps of his mask. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Larry’s brow arched at him.

“No,” Sal repeated, softer this time. His voice felt too small, his throat a little tight. He tried to hold Larry’s gaze, but it was like staring into the sun; his eyes flicked away almost instantly. His hand rose again, hovering near his mask like it might burn him if he touched it too long.

Larry leaned against the doorframe, toothbrush still in hand. His hair was damp from the shower, falling in wet strands around his face. He smelled like laundry and his favorite citrus shampoo and just fucking man, and he looked so effortlessly at ease it made Sal’s insides twist with tension and something else he did *not* have the guts to admit yet.

“You okay, dude?” Larry asked. His tone was light, but there was a crease between his brows now—tiny, but there.

Sal swallowed. His legs felt restless, shifting again, arms crossing and uncrossing like he was trying to hold himself together. He nodded before quickly shaking his head, a jerky motion that betrayed him.

“I just—” The words caught in his throat, and he gave a frustrated exhale, shoulders hunching as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His chest ached with the need for air, for relief, for honesty.

Larry tilted his head, watching him closely now, the joking edge still present but much less dominant. “Just what?

Sal looked up at him, ignoring the instincts that told him to run back to the room. “My mask.” He explained, as if that made things clearer.

Larry went quiet for a second before speaking, biting the inside of his cheek. An old habit he had picked up when he was just a kid. “…Your mask?” he asked.

“What about it?” he asked, subconsciously leaning closer to Sal, holding himself back from pulling him into a tight hug. “Is it bothering you?”

Sal’s eyes darted around the room, refusing to settle. They skipped between Larry’s eyes, lips, and bare, wet, dripping, chiseled chest. Well, shit. He had no idea he had showered in there. That just made things a lot harder. “Well..” Sal muttered. “Should I go back to your room? I didn’t want to… interrupt.”

Sal could tell it took Larry a minute to understand what he was referring to, because the boy blinked, glancing back toward his room as if trying to trace the path of Sal’s nerves.

“Oh,” Larry said finally, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Dude, you’re not interrupting anything.”

That grin made Sal’s pulse trip over itself. His fingers dug into his sleeves now, curling tight, before he forced himself to loosen them. He shifted his weight, shoulders lifting faintly like he wanted to disappear into himself.

Larry leaned in the doorway just a little more, deliberately casual. The faint sound of dripping water hit the bathroom tiles behind him, strands of his hair clinging to his temples. He wasn’t even trying, and still, he was magnetic.

Sal let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the air shaky. His throat worked as he tried to swallow down the storm building in his chest. He looked back up, just for a moment, and the sight of Larry—bare, open, warm—pulled something loose in him. “I can’t sleep in my mask.” He explained. And Larry’s face said it all.

His face stretched into a thinking machine. His eyes narrowed on Sal, as if he was trying to assess what he had just said. Suddenly, he shifted and started nodding to himself.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. You can take my room.”

Sal’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not, Larry.” He protested, folding his arms over his chest. Crashing in his house was enough as it was, but stealing his bedroom was on a whole other level.

“Absolutely yes!” Larry corrected, stretching and revealing a little more of his snail trail. Sal’s eyes trailed from his face, down to his chest, six pack, abdomen, and eventually down to his..                                                                                                                                            

Sal mentally scolded himself and quickly fixed his eyes back onto Larry’s face, cheeks warming under the mask. His arms folded tighter, like they could hide the betrayal of where his gaze had just wandered. And now he knew for sure he did not want Larry to sleep in another room.

 

Larry was still smirking, oblivious—or maybe not. “C’mon, dude. I’m serious. You’ll sleep better without that thing on, and you need sleep. End of story.” He gave a little shrug, hair falling into his eyes, casual in a way that made Sal’s stomach twist.

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed,” Sal shot back, voice firmer than he felt. His weight shifted from one foot to the other, toe of his shoe dragging against the carpet. “That’s… stupid.”

Larry tilted his head, studying him again, arms folding loosely across his bare chest. “Then what? We share?” His grin grew a shade more daring, teasing—but his eyes softened almost instantly

Sal let out a small huff of amusement, his lips curling into a modest smile. He looked at Larry through his eyelashes, his blue eyes shimmering under the fluorescent lights of Larry’s bathroom. “We were gonna do that anyway.” He noted, reaching up to tug on a small strand of his hair.                 

Larry’s grin kept on shining, almost blinding Sal with its sheer, pure charm. He let out a chuckle. “I guess you’re right.” He agreed, straightening his posture from his usual slump. “What are you offering to do, then? Because I want you to be comfortable here, man. And if that includes me sleeping on the cold, stiff sofa, then I guess-“

Larry’s words trailed off when he caught the look on Sal’s face—something caught between panic and defiance. Sal’s hands fidgeted at the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric until his knuckles whitened.

“Larry, it’s not about the couch.” His voice was quiet but sharp, like each word had to be dragged out of him. “It’s about…” He hesitated, the storm back in his chest, threatening to spill. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “…about me.”

Larry’s smirk softened into something gentler, his arms unfolding, hands falling to his sides like he didn’t want to crowd him. “Hey.” He tilted his head, voice low. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

Sal’s gaze dropped, his hair falling forward like a shield. He shook his head. “I just—I can’t sleep in it. I mean- not today, at least. And I can’t…” His arms folded tighter across himself, squeezing. “I can’t let anyone see. Let alone you.” The last word almost broke them both.

Larry was silent for a moment, watching him. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Instead, he scratched at the back of his neck, then spoke carefully, like every word mattered. “Then don’t. I mean—if you need it off, I’ll… I dunno. I’ll close my eyes, face the wall, or whatever. I don’t mind, dude.”

Sal blinked up at him, blue eyes shining through the fall of his bangs. The idea seemed almost absurd, and yet Larry said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it wasn’t asking too much.

“…You’d actually do that?” Sal asked, voice small.

Larry gave a little half-smile, crooked and real. “Dude, I’d sleep hanging upside down like a bat if it meant you could actually rest. Don’t underestimate me.”

 

That dragged the smallest laugh out of Sal—weak, but real. His chest loosened a fraction, and he shook his head at Larry, almost in disbelief. “Really, Lar?”

Larry raised his eyebrows, the genuine, kind smile on his face never leaving. “I already told you, Sal. You shouldn’t underestimate me.” He said, taking a step closer, running a hand through his long, wavy, beautiful hair. And suddenly, Sal remembered that the man in front of him was shirtless and fit and dripping with water from the shower and god only knows what he did in there with his perfect face and perfect body and perfect hands and perfect-

No. not now. the thoughts swirled around in Sal’s head, overtaking his mind and overpowering any shred of doubt left in his mind about the heavenly man in front of him. “Uh, yeah, okay,” he stammered, his voice almost a whisper due to the daze in his mind. Larry let out a deep chuckle at the sight and put a hand on Sal’s arm, gently squeezing it. “How ‘bout you go back to bed,” he started, his voice low and rougher than usual. That octave sure did wonders for Sal. “Get comfortable, and I’ll come back in a few. And then we can do whatever you want.”  Larry offered, his hand trailing down from Sal’s arm to his hand, taking it in his. His grip was soft, undemanding, and downright sinful. His palm was like wildfire, setting a dangerous storm in Sal’s mind and body.

“Mmhm,” Sal nodded, hypnotized by the other man’s actions. they have hugged. held hands. Hell, they’ve even cuddled. But this was different. Sal was intoxicated just by existing next to him. His voice, touch, words – they all played a menacing part in the evil game of Larry Johnson.

 

Sal slid back into bed, his face red and his heart thumping inside his chest. He had always thought of Larry as a magnetic person – something about him was special. That was undeniable. Every single person who has ever met him has either liked him or loved him. He was like sunshine in a bottle. That was his gift. he was the sun. and poor Sal could never get enough of him.

 

Sal could hear the bathroom door open and shut, followed by a couple of familiar footsteps. “Sal?” Larry called before creaking the door open and peeking inside. “You’re not jacking off in here or something, right?” he asked, unfortunately half serious, making Sal laugh both at the absurdity of Larry’s question and at the fact that he had definitely thought about doing that just before he came into the room. 

“No, Larry. What the fuck?” Sal snickered, scooting over to the side of the bed to make some space for Larry. Clearly, Larry took that as an invitation, throwing himself on top of the sheets and almost making Sal fall off.

“You never know, lil dude. You might as well be jacking your stack in here, and I wouldn’t even know about it.” He teased, taking up as much space on the bed as he possibly could. and even though Sal knew he wasn’t really serious, he couldn’t help but pick up on the hidden implication behind Larry’s joking tone. His face reddened against his will again, almost giving him away. Good thing Larry couldn’t see it.

 

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Because sleeping in your unwashed sheets gives me such a boner.” Sal chided, attempting to make more space for himself on the bed. Larry barked out a laugh.

“Excuse you, I washed them last month!”  he declared, hand over his heart as if he was swearing the pledge of allegiance.

“Really? It doesn’t seem so.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” The bluenette stated, looking at Larry with a challenging look.

“Why are you still here, then?” Larry asked, his voice turning almost inaudible as he whispered in Sal’s ear.

Sal took a second to think of a clap back, but soon gave up after he noticed the look Larry was giving him. a look that made him do a 180. A look that made shivers run down his back. “…Cause I like you.” He divulged, allowing himself to lean closer to Larry.

“Yeah?” The brunette asked, a suave grin overtaking his face as he brushed some hair out of Sal’s face. His voice was suddenly an octave lower, rough, smooth, and downright intoxicating. The tone of his voice alone made Sal’s stomach do somersaults.

“Yeah, I think so.” Sal nodded. Normally, he wouldn’t even dare to display any type of affection beyond a hug, but something about Larry absolutely demolished anything left of his self-respect tonight.

“I didn’t know that, Sally face.” Larry countered, nudging Sal’s shoulder with his own. The expression on his face told Sal everything he needed to know. “As a friend?” he asked, throwing Sal off even though they both knew exactly what he really meant.                                        

Sal looked up at Larry through his lashes, and Larry put an arm around his shoulder, pressing him closer. “Yeah,” Sal said, his tone clearly hinting at something much different than friendship. “As a friend.”

“I like you too, Blue.” Larry said, smiling a crooked, lazy, charming smile that made Sal’s heart flutter and stop for a second.  “A lot.” he continued. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moon and the stars that shone upon it. The only noise in the room was the soft sound of their breathing and the ceiling fan, which posed a serious safety hazard. They were two awkward, dumb boys who somehow managed to fall head over heels for each other. Two stupid boys who didn’t seem to know it yet. Or maybe they did. “More than I should, that’s for sure.”

Sal looked up at him, his eyes displaying an emotion he couldn’t name yet. His heart was skipping beats left and right, threatening to collapse if he didn’t do something about this. “Yeah?” the boy asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You do?”

“Without a doubt, I do.”

“As a friend?” Sal asked, leaning closer without noticing, their faces inches apart. The only thing keeping them apart was Sal’s mask and their timidness.  Larry let out a low chuckle before looking at Sal with a grin.

“As a friend, Sally face. Of course.”

Larry’s grin softened, just a little, but it didn’t disappear. Instead, there was something in the tilt of his head, the way his eyes lingered on Sal’s mask a moment too long, that said everything his words didn’t. Sal felt it—a warmth spreading through his chest, a quiet, dangerous thrill that made his stomach twist.

 

He shifted slightly, careful not to touch Larry, and yet the movement brought them closer. “…Right,” Sal murmured, his voice tight, almost brittle, as if saying it aloud made it real. “As a friend.”

 

Larry’s hand hovered for a second near Sal’s, almost brushing his fingers, then retreated. “Yeah. Friends.” His voice was calm, steady, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him.

 

Sal blinked, trying to steady the storm inside him. His mask felt heavy on his face suddenly, suffocating almost, and he pulled at the edges subtly, careful not to draw attention. Larry noticed, of course—how could he not?—and his gaze softened, a small crease forming between his brows.

 

“You don’t have to keep that on if it’s bothering you,” Larry said softly, voice low enough that it could have been mistaken for the whisper of the ceiling fan. “Not for me.”

 

Sal swallowed, his pulse hammering in his throat. “I… I know,” he whispered, words hesitant. He wanted to, but something in him still quivered—still clung to the half-truth of safety the mask gave him.

 

Larry didn’t push. He simply let the moment stretch, letting Sal decide, letting him feel. And even without saying it, the heat between them—this unspoken understanding—was undeniable. Their words danced around the truth, teasing it, acknowledging it in all the ways they could without admitting the whole thing.

“…Yeah,” Sal breathed, finally letting a small exhale slip. “Friends.”

Larry’s hand brushed lightly against Sal’s shoulder in a careless gesture, but it sent a shiver through him. “Best friends,” he added, voice teasing but soft, letting the double meaning hang in the air.

Sal’s heart skipped again. “Best friends,” he echoed, his voice barely audible, eyes catching Larry’s in the moonlight. And in that silent exchange, that glance, that brush of fingers, they both knew: this was more than ‘just friends’, or whatever they pretended to be. More than best friends. But for now, it was safer, quieter, hidden behind the words they could say aloud.

The room held its breath with them, the darkness, the moonlight, the faint hum of the fan—a cocoon of hesitation and longing. And in that cocoon, they simply existed. Close, almost touching, hearts racing in tandem, neither daring to say the thing that both already knew.

It was enough. For now.